


My Anathema

by scarredsodeep



Category: AFI
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-27
Updated: 2006-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every prostitute knows better than to fall for their boss. That happy endings don't really happen for people like them. Jade Puget doesn't think he's different, not really--until he meets Carson, the dangerous pimp of a high-class whorehouse who swore off love long ago. Are two poisoned hearts prepared to change?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

Jade picked him out easily, eyes sharp despite the layers of cigarette haze and darkness between them. A hard-looking man, one who was raised on the streets. His voice was low, his hands were rough, and his blue eyes were cold and closed.

Jade smiled to himself, murmuring, “Mr. Carson, what on earth are you doing here?” The hunter settled back, choosing a small, secluded table, and watched his prey carefully. He’d been looking for the harsh man for weeks, now; searching the clubs he frequented, questioning whores along Carson’s usual alleys. Now that he’d finally cornered the man, the last thing Jade could afford to do was screw up.

He knew he looked good, too good to pass up, which helped. He fumbled with his cigarette nervously, hoping his eyeliner wasn’t smudged. His high cheekbones, dusted with freckles, gave him a proud but boyish face; his perpetually swollen lips made him alluring. His eyes were big and dark, hidden behind blackened lashes, and his hair was just long enough to rake his fingers through. He was wearing all black, jeans so tight he had to lay down to get them on and knew better than to breathe too much, let alone eat, while wearing and a t-shirt that hugged each rib tight as his skin. He thought jewelry might be overkill and only chose a thin black choker and small hoops through his ears. He knew how he looked, and it was right. Up until his feet—they were the only things that didn’t fit with the rest, nestled in his favorite Sambas, soft black sneakers with white stripes. He couldn’t afford more than one pair of shoes, not right now, and they were perfect—they kept his footfalls silent and let him run freely, no blisters or discomfort and just the right amount of support. Not the type of shoes a man dressed like him should wear, but he knew that a quick and silent getaway was every bit as important as his noose-like budget.

Exhaling a lungful of smoke shakily, Jade watched a slim brunette join Carson’s table. The girl would be pretty with less make-up, if she looked less frightened. Jade took these things in stride, careful not to let his Marlboro Red quiver with his hand and focusing instead on the immaculate curls of smoke.

His eyes wouldn’t focus. It was foolish to stare, but his eyes wouldn’t stay off the girl. She shifted awkwardly in her seat, straining to hear Carson’s cool, measured words over the music. The look of terror on her classic face, followed by the discreet exchange of a grubby roll of bills, answered every question Jade might have thought he had.

Carson was his man.

Shortly after the girl left, Carson finished his drink and headed for the door, contact made and money collected. Jade got up silently, shadowed Carson to the door, slipping out into the cool nighttime moments later. He hung back, following Carson a block or so behind, never letting the broad man leave his sight.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the club, Carson veered unexpectedly down an alleyway. Quickening his pace, Jade paused a moment in the last flickering streetlight before plunging into darkness.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	2. Before

I pressed myself flat against the bricks. Someone was following; they’d been tailing me since I left the club. I didn’t know why, but if they were dumb enough to follow me into an alley, then they weren’t going to be a threat much longer.

Sure enough, barely a minute had passed before the skinny silhouette of my tail appeared at the mouth of the alley.

 _Keep going_ , I thought, begging. _Just go home._

He didn’t. As soon as he was level with me, I spun out from the wall, catching the collar of his jacket—suede, I noted, impressed—and whirling back around, slamming him against the wall. His eyes were huge, all I could see in the shadows. He was a stick, terrified and not even trying to fight. What kind of assailant didn’t know how to fight?

Didn’t matter. He followed me. There was no space for guilt.

My left hook, vicious as ever, slammed his face into the brick, scraping his cheek. As soon as he started bleeding, I smelled it, sharp stinging metal.

Goddamnit.

“Who are you?” I growled, shoving my face close against his.

Scared. He was scared, shaking beneath me, gulping air so desperately that his whole body was racked with it, heart beating too fast where my body pressed against him and lithe arms limp at his sides.

I pulled him forward and slammed him back, hard. His head lolled forward and he broke into a coughing fit.

A fucking smoker, that’s what he was. Idiot couldn’t fight, followed strangers into abandoned alleyways in the middle of the night, and he smoked on top of that. Well, there was no pity for fuckers like that. You’d think the kid _wanted_ to die.

So I did it again.

By now he was gasping for air. Not out of fear, but out of necessity.

“Please,” he choked, voice breathless and grating. “Please, don’t.”

And then, more than the blood, I smelled something else. Something familiar. A smell I knew, lilting and musky and sweet. There was sweat and soap and a kind of cologne that, by now, I half thought I’d imagined.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded again, voice rising. Worse than an attack on my person, this was an attack on my subconscious. Unforgivable.

Blood crept down his lip and he coughed again, trying to double over. I didn’t let him, kept him tight against the wall, and the smell of his blood covered the cologne again. My pulse slowed.

“I asked you a _question_ ,” I spat, staring hard into his wild, frightened eyes. He was so thin I felt he might crumble any second. He needed a good meal, not a fight in some helpless alleyway. I should just take the kid home, clean him up, find out what the hell he was doing. Most likely he was only going to mug me. Kid must be starving and desperate if he was going to try to take money from a guy who looked mean as me. I was broad and solid and the scar on my cheek didn’t help—never mind that I only had an inch on him, there was no way this starving mongrel could believe a fuck like me would toss up my wallet without a fight. He was so skinny that a Carebear wouldn’t have been intimidated—but I couldn’t let compassion win out. I wasn’t that man anymore. The fucker had followed me, and he would get what he deserved.

“You some kind of fucking junkie? Gonna mug me and buy your smack?” There, that was a nice despicable possibility why he was so damned skinny. Hell, I was doing this kid a favor if I scared him off his next fix, wasn’t I?

Not that it mattered. I reminded myself that. Jesus, one whiff of that cologne and I was going soft all over again. A kid hopeless as this, smelling like that—I’d have to be careful, that was all. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down.

I ground him back against the wall, kneed him in the ribs. Hard, but not as hard as I might’ve. I could’ve crushed his bones into a powder, leave him smeared against the grungy bricks. And if not for that cologne, I would’ve. I wasn’t a killer, but I defended my turf. This kid was practically begging for a trip to the ER. He was lucky I didn’t collapse his lungs and leave him for dead.

“Answer me!” I yelled, knowing how rough and mean my voice got when I was like this. Confused. God, I couldn’t afford to be confused. I was hard and I was cold and it didn’t fucking matter that I was numb and alone because I had to be that way. I had to be that way if I wanted to survive.

He licked his bloodied lip tentatively, face twisted in pain. He coughed once and tried his voice. It was weak and full of gravel. I knew how his mouth tasted—copper and skin. He was lucky he wasn’t spitting out pieces of his lungs yet. He would be before morning. It was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it—so quiet that I could almost entertain the idea that I’d heard wrong.

“Work.”

I slapped him, backhand, across the bloody cheek. His core lurched, body jerking violently inwards with the pain as his opposite temple smacked the clammy brick relentlessly. I couldn’t feel bad for the bastard; he’d started it. He followed me. He should have been ready, should have been prepared. Should have tried to fight while he still could.

Besides, he was too young to smoke.

I shook my head, hard. That thought had been dangerously close to compassionate. That was not allowed. He was just a kid, that was all—just another fuck-up piece of meat. I couldn’t forget that. No matter who he smelled like.

“What?” I demanded, using his cologne to my advantage. All the hatred I’d never allowed myself to feel for—for _him_ —I spat at this boy, voice low and menacing and damn near lethal. “I asked you who the fuck you were!”

“I need work!” he yelped, muscles tensing. He was getting angry now, indignant. In this state, I didn’t know how that was possible—he was fiery. Even in agony, he had spirit. I liked that. The businessman in me filed it away. Fire sold.

“Work?” I repeated, stifling the cold, businesslike thoughts against my gut instinct. It wasn’t that I felt for the kid, I convinced myself—it wasn’t even humanity. It was just something that had to be done. “You don’t want my kind of work.”

I rose my hand to hit him again, but something in his eyes stopped me, a bad sign. Pity. That wasn’t like me at all. I was ruthless—I was _known_ for being ruthless. Cold. I was not given to pity, did not feel things the way other people did. It was a fact and half the city knew it—so why did I have to keep reminding myself? What was happening to me? I was supposed to be stronger than this. Fucking _cologne_ was not supposed to break me.

“I do,” he insisted. I heard in his defiance that he was young, younger than I’d thought, no more than a boy. “I’m good. I—I’ll show you—”

Filled with revulsion, my open palm connected with his face, a silencing smack that echoed. He emitted only a weak cry, no more words. What kind of pervert did he think I was?

“You don’t WANT this!” I yelled, shaking him by the collar of his jacket. It was a shame he’d be bleeding all over it; it really was nice. “Do you hear me? Get the hell away! Go back home to your goddamn family! You can—”

I stopped myself. I’d been about to tell him he could do better. What the hell was I thinking?

I let go of him, expecting him to slump to the pavement. After that beating, any man would have. The kid could barely speak, let alone stand. But he braced himself against the wall, tried to follow me, staggering into the side of a Dumpster when he overestimated his legs’ capability to support him. He clung to the damp, grim metal for support, coughing wetly. “Please,” he repeated, voice weak but determined. That kind of spark, that sort of determination—that was good money. He _would_ be good. People would pay for fire like his, just like he’d promised.

I sighed, remembering his cologne. He should run far and fast. Hell, _I_ should run far and fast.

But—

I half-turned, facing him as he dragged himself closer.

“I need money bad,” he choked out, barely getting the words out before a coughing fit sent him scrabbling at the Dumpster’s flaking side, trying to hold himself up.

Pathetic.

“This isn’t a good life,” I warned him, same as I warned everyone. “This isn’t a good life.”

“It’s the one I want,” he said, and I don’t know how he managed the words, lurching forward into the light so I saw his face. He was already bruising bad; it was a veritable miracle he’d pushed off the Dumpster at all.

But that didn’t matter—cheek scraped, face bloody, neck shadowed by old bruises faded green, lip and chin stained with blood—he was gorgeous. An impish face, bright and lovely. He was lithe and slender, impossibly young, skin smooth and white and pleasing.

Oh yes, he would sell.

I drove my foot into his ribs, this time bringing him to the unforgiving concrete, palms down and coughing blood.

Even so, he looked up, forced himself to meet my eyes. Unafraid, sweet brown perfection, his own gaze was tainted with dislike and, inconceivably, trust.

I nodded grimly. He was no different from the others, I reminded myself, nothing special. Younger, rougher, more determined, maybe—but no different. I didn’t understand him, but there was no good reason to turn him away. Not when I could already see what kind of profit he’d pull.

“Then get the hell off the ground,” I ordered, breaking the eye contact with my growl before I was forced to acknowledge the way his eyes made me shiver. I knew exactly how cruel I sounded, not a tremor in my voice, and I knew it had to be that way. It would always have to be that way, with this one—he could know no kindness. If I let up, just for a second, my whole guard would slip away, spiral into nothingness so complete it might as well have never existed.

“Get your pathetic little ass up and come with me. You’re gonna have to fucking handle yourself better than this if you work with me, I’ll tell you that much right now, and if you don’t put some fucking skin on your bones you’re useless. No one wants to fuck a fucking corpse, do they? _I said get up!_ ”

He spat out more blood and slowly, moving like a man in agony, came to his feet, leaning uselessly against the Dumpster for support. “My name is Jade,” he offered, waiting for me to help him.

“I don’t fucking care,” I said as nastily as I could manage. “You can either keep up or forget the job,” I added, turning on heel and stalking away.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	3. Jade

I’d heard he was heartless, cruel as they came, but I didn’t believe it. Not until the moment he left me there, clinging to the cold metal lip of the Dumpster, gagging on my blood and vision going white.

I felt my way along the bricks of the alley, pulling myself forward slowly. Bit by bit, my footing grew surer, mind made acute by the stabbing pain. Some of the mists pulled back till I could almost see, stumbling and slipping and doing my best to stay close behind him.

I hurt. Every last bit of me hurt. He was right; I would need to learn how to fight. I hadn’t been able to do a thing, and he’d managed to break my knees, lacerate my feet, tie my lungs in a terrible knot, and slip knives into my ears and through my brain before I’d even known what was happening. I didn’t even know where my stomach was, let alone what state it was in, but the only point of my body that wasn’t throbbing in utmost agony was the second knuckle on my left pinky. How it had escaped the vat of burning oil he must have dunked me in, I’d never know. It felt like the only thing holding my limbs on was barbed wire, and I couldn’t help but wishing I’d just fall down and die already.

At the same time, I knew he could have bone a thousand times worse.

I fought off fatigue for as long as I could, but I’d never been beaten so thoroughly in my life, and I hadn’t eaten for days. It was just as I grew certain that I’d collapse in another ten steps that he stopped dead in front of the dingiest building we’d passed yet. He fumbled a key into a rusted lock on a rotting wooden door, disappeared inside the crumbling old building, letting the feeble but heavy-looking door swing shut behind him. I stuck my hand in just before it closed, crushed fingers in exchange for entry.

I bit off my whimper, lurching through the entryway and down a dark corridor rank with mildew. I glanced back, the grating in my neck complaining instantly, to see that the door was not so insubstantial on this side, but reinforced with metal, the only thing that looked sturdy in this damp, molding heap. Looking forward again, and my neck popped this time, there was a weak yellow light filtering through a doorway towards the end of the hall. I didn’t spare a glance to the darkened doorways on the way, afraid of what I might see and what my neck might think about it; I also felt in the very core of my being that I would only make it to the lit door if I bent all intent upon it.

If I stopped now, I had little doubt I’d die.

Fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm, I stumbled through the doorway, faced with a small, rundown kitchen. Sitting in a creaking wooden chair, his back to the door, was the man I’d followed. Carson. He was staring listlessly into a green bottle of Heineken, and I wondered if he knew I’d made it.

I certainly wasn’t about to try sneaking up on _him_ again.

I leaned heavily against the doorframe, trying to stabilize myself and think of something clever to say. I wanted him to like me, even after this. I didn’t know how everything had fallen apart so fast—my plan had been nothing like this. It had gone a little muddy now, but I remembered it being something like sexy, confident, and clever, keeping his eyes on me and his mind on money and swinging my hips just so when I walked away, if he even let me walk away, so that he had no choice but to follow. There was a faint recollection of practicing my come-hither pout in a gasoline-rainbowed murky puddle outside the club.

Before a single decent thought had entered my head, his low, calm voice came. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

He didn’t turn around. Detached, my thoughts strayed, and I wondered how he’d known I was there. I hoped distractedly that I wasn’t panting or wheezing or anything embarrassing like that. How I managed to be concerned with something like that, I don’t know. Part of me—no, most of me—knew a man like this wouldn’t hesitate to throw me back out on the street, in worse shape and even hungrier than I’d been before this last-ditch attempt.

“You didn’t want me to,” I accused, defiance giving me a semblance of strength. If I tried hard enough, I could almost feel the warmth of anger. God, I was cold.

I shivered, and I heard my treacherous teeth chatter. He didn’t show any indication, but I’m sure he did too.

Instead, he just sighed, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Sit down,” he told me, nodding towards the chair across from him. It looked like it would break if I so much as looked at it, but if I didn’t sit, _soon_ , I’d be unconscious. Still not bothered to turn around, he offered, “Beer?”

“I’m not old enough,” I muttered, by some grace of God making it across the kitchen and slumping into the chair, exhausted and hurting. The fact that it didn’t collapse with me showed an unusual benevolence from the heavens. I hoped he didn’t expect me to talk.

He didn’t seem to; instead he chuckled in a disbelieving way, like what I’d said was funny, and tipped his chair back so he could reach the fridge. He swung the door harder than it seemed to like, twisted a bottleneck between his fingers, and slammed the door again. Slapping the chair’s legs back onto the dusty wood floor, he slid the bottle across the table to me.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I settled my hand around the base of it and asked if he had a bottle opener.

He laughed again and said, “It’s a twist-off.” He watched me struggle with it for a few moments, finally getting it open, before asking incredulously, “So do you really expect me to believe that you don’t drink?”

I shrugged. “I told you, I’m not old enough,” I repeated, voice getting sullen. I had the feeling he was making fun of me, but my head was too hazy for me to do a thing about it.

He waited for me to take a sip and ducked his head so I wouldn’t see his laughter at the face I made. It tasted like stale piss with a pretzel in it; I don’t know what kind of reaction he expected me to have. Beer is nothing if not a massive joke the male population has decided to play upon the rest of the world. Once this ordeal was finished with, he took a swig of his own bottle, had the nerve to look refreshed, and drew the warmth of the air in around himself. The room felt colder, and the angles of his face seemed to become sharper as his tone grew clipped, his manner businesslike. He was no longer my friend.

“I know you’re tired, so I’ll try to make this as brief as possible,” he informed me, sounding terribly unconcerned and like his beating the crap out of me had been a huge imposition. “But if you’re going to live in this house, there are a few rules you need to know and know well. Breaking any one of them will lead to the immediate termination of your employment. Understood?”

I was surprised that it mattered. “Um, yes,” I mumbled, forcing down another sip of the disgusting beer to be polite.

His chair scraped the ground; when I looked up again he was standing, bent over the table, face inches from mine. He was massive. “I asked you a question,” he growled.

“Yes,” I said, more clearly this time, and resisted the powerful temptation to tack a ‘sir’ onto the end.

Carson settled back into his chair, was looked only slightly more reliable than my own. “Good,” he conceded, much calmer now. “The rules, then.

“One. You come back here at night. _Every_ night. At least till I can trust you,” he ordered, sounding deadly serious and staring straight into me. Looking away would only prove that I was afraid, so I didn’t; I stared back. “Two. A common misconception in this business is that you work the street. Not true. Your work is solely appointments, which I will make. You will not make your own. Ever. If you want extra money, get a job at Wendy’s. No one of mine does tricks in alleyways, you understand? Twenty for a blow job is not going to pay for food and it’s not going to get you a reputation or a clientele. Make sense so far?”

I was grateful for his pause; his words were slipping by almost too fast for me to comprehend. He might have been doing an imitation of a dying giraffe or selling me tomatoes; I couldn’t say for sure. I took another sip of the beer, trying to steady myself, stay conscious. I gagged instead, and he went on.

“Three. _You get all appointments from me_.” He said this vehemently and paused to stare hard at me. “I know I just said this, but I want to make sure you don’t forget it. Anybody wants more of you, you give them my number and nothing else. Four. You get nights off when I give them to you. If you miss an appointment, I want you and your shit gone before sunrise. If you’re feeling overworked, again, Wendy’s is hiring and I certainly don’t need you.”

His words were a bit clearer now, even if he was going too fast. So far I’d gathered that the guy was, in general, a complete bastard. But he seemed reasonable and everything he’d asked was understandable. I tried to convince myself that this would be a good life, an okay place to work. That this was a choice. That it wouldn’t be so bad.

I shook my head, hard, and snapped back to attention. He was talking again. “Five. If a buyer goes directly to you—some don’t feel comfortable paying, or meeting with, a third party—then you bring me every cent. Don’t get cute, don’t keep any for your fucking self. I don’t care if it’s for bail or food or a parking ticket, you give me _everything_. I’ll give you your cut every Friday. It’ll be what you earn, no more or no less. Keep in mind that what a client is willing to pay is not necessarily what you have earned. I’m don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but it’s me that you came to, so you must know that I’m safe—I’m fair. You’ll get what you deserve, no more or no less. Six—and this is important—is that you don’t work for _anyone_ but me. I don’t care what they’re offering you, or if they say they’ve talked to me and they’re understaffed this weekend—you do what I tell you, no matter what, and don’t listen to shit from anyone else. Is that clear?”

This seemed to be one of those pauses that demanded a response. I was doing my best to stay alert—conscious—but I’d never been so drained before. Besides, I was pretty much positive he’d promised that this would be _short_ , not an outline of his upcoming novel. “Yes,” I coughed obligingly, knowing it was expected and hoping I sounded sincere. The bruises only seemed to aggravate my hunger and I was dying.

“Good. As long as you’re holding up, we’ll move on.” I stifled a groan. “Seven is that you don’t tell anyone your name.” His voice was harsher than before, more urgent. “You don’t tell anyone where to find you. You don’t work for threats or violence and if I’m not here, you never go looking for me. If I need you, I’ll find you. All right, we’re getting into the technical part—are you up for it?”

For some idiotic reason I nodded consent.

He looked pleased for nearly a full nanosecond before continuing briskly, “I want you fully functioning. I’m not going to repeat myself. Eight. You do whatever a client wants that doesn’t leave a mark. Whatever they ask. I don’t care if they want you to groom their gerbil with your feet—if that’s what they get off on, that’s what you’re going to do.”

“There’s one thing I’ll never do,” I interrupted, a fact he didn’t look too pleased about.

Eyebrows raised, ice in his eyes implying that I’d be better off dead, he asked in the coldest voice I’d ever heard, “And what might that be?”

I smirked and flicked my tongue over my bloody lip. This was a game—and he needed to know that beating me in an alleyway was not the same as beating me. “Disappoint.”

He looked disgusted for a moment before rolling his ice blue eyes and going on as if I’d never attempted humor, “I do keep client profiles, so you’ll know what to expect and if you need to bring anything—though most of the people we deal with are well off enough to provide their own personal items. Anything that leaves any kind of mark is not okay. If they don’t understand that, they can take it up with me. But other than that, you don’t say no, ever. If there’s something they want, it’s your fucking job to provide it. Saying no makes the reputation of my establishment lose more than your life is worth.” He let the implications of this, which I mostly listened to, sink in before going on. “Nine, and don’t you fucking break this one. You don’t get addicted to anything and you don’t go to an appointment fucked up. If a client offers you any kind of substance, from peanut butter to ecstasy, it’s up to you whether you accept. But if some guy says to you that he wants you to shoot up with him, and you don’t really feel like mainlining tonight, what are you going to say?”

“Yes,” I said yet again, rules seething through my mind. It wouldn’t be so bad, I tried to tell myself. There were worse men to work for. A job meant money, and money meant food. It was just sex, just a body—in the end, what did it mean? Other than worm food.

Carson nodded, looking pleased and brushing a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. “But under no circumstances are you to become dependent on a substance. That will cost you a lot more than your job. The tenth and final rule is the single most important, and I will not tolerate any questions about it. You are to stay the hell away from me—I will _never_ want sex from you. Aside from business, I want nothing to do with you. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want to _see_ you when I don’t have to. And if you ever touch me… I’ll kill you.”

He stopped talking and the way he was looking at me let me know that, no matter what it sounded like, this was very much not a joke. So I swallowed hard, nodded, and did my best to change the subject. “What—ah—what do your rates look like?”

Carson looked surprised that I’d said something worthwhile. Despite what he’d said about my consciousness being required, he didn’t seem to be holding out too much hope for it. But I wasn’t going to pass out in his kitchen until we’d covered all the bases.

“Base rates are low, of course,” he finally answered, voice still gruff and businesslike. “You prove to be worth more, there’ll be someone to pay it. If you want a raise, then you work better, harder. I will not give you anything you don’t earn.” His voice was severe, so I wouldn’t try to cross him, but he sounded pleased that I knew what I was doing. You didn’t have to train someone if they knew the business just as well as you did.

“And tips? Can I keep those?” Some miracle kept the sarcasm from my voice, but he looked at me like he’d known it was there anyway.

“Tips aren’t something you’ll have to worry about with my clientele,” Carson assured me.

I’d have laughed if I thought for just one second that it wouldn’t be agony. I coughed instead, which was only a little less painful, and gave him my best smirk. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I was so damn good that no matter how much they were already paying, no matter how old and Jewish and stingy that they were, they tipped me. What would I be required to do with that money?”

This time he looked at me differently, like he was trying to figure out what game I was playing. In any event, the light in his eyes said that he liked it, and he let a smile touch his lips for almost a full second. “I’d advise you to buy yourself something nice with it,” he finally said, eyes still sparkling with amusement. “But don’t get your hopes up.”

I flashed my smuggest smile and took another sip of the beer. Once I got past the taste, it was mercifully cool on my ragged throat. I let my eyes close for a half second, enjoying the feeling at the expense of my taste buds. “And what kind of protection do you offer?”

Again, Carson looked pleased and surprised. I still wanted to talk business, even when I knew that somewhere within these walls there was a bed—most likely a lumpy and damp one—waiting for me.

“As much as I can give you,” he said sincerely. It was my turn to be surprised—a man like Carson, honestly concerned about his wares? He must be every bit as selective as I’d heard, then. For the first—but certainly not the last—time I noted how lucky I was to have made it this far. He was still talking, though: “You do need to learn how to defend yourself, though. Just because you won’t be doing street work doesn’t mean that you won’t need to be able to get out of a bad situation. If you’re hurt because of my mistake, you’ll be paid double—even if that comes out of my pocket. I take full responsibility for any situation I put you into.”

I nodded appreciatively. I wasn’t expecting health insurance, of course, but this was a lot better than anything I’d ever heard of.

It was like he’d read my mind. “As far as health goes,” he went on, “I’ll pay for a monthly test at the clinic and I’ll provide condoms, which you are expected to use. If you contract HIV, I will of course no longer be able to use you. If you get too sick to work—the flu, a cold, whatever—I’ll help you with whatever related bills you might have. This is not kindness, but merely in my best interest that you’re well enough to work. You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen, bathroom, and linen closet, but I’ll thank you to keep poking around to a minimum. You need anything beyond that, well, that’s why I pay you,” he explained.

And they called this man cruel? Carson was turning out to be unfathomably kind. Who had ever treated me so well? And then I remembered the look on the brunette’s face, so long ago it felt like years. The fear on her face, so plain, had come from somewhere.

“You look tired,” he said disinterestedly once it became apparent I was through with my questioning. “There should be an empty bed upstairs; I’ve only got eight in-house employees at the moment. I have five girls, and you’ll be the fourth—ah—” He struggled, for a moment, with whether to call me a boy or a man.

“I’ll be eighteen in November,” I offered.

“Right,” Carson said, nodding and not looking at all surprised. “Take care not to mention that to any clients. Go upstairs and get some sleep—if you’re still here in the morning, some of my best clients will probably want to take a look at you, so clean up the best you can. You got any other clothes?”

I shook my head. In another life, maybe. But right now I was wearing everything I owned. What little else I’d had, I’d thrown away before tonight. I didn’t want anything to remind me. I was trying to start over.

“All right. There’s a washing machine and a dryer down here; if you want to throw those in, feel free. We’ll work on getting you some other clothes in the morning.” He finished speaking, a look passing over his face like he was quite ready to be done with me.

I nodded, grateful that he was as exhausted of this question-and-lecture as I was. But by the time I’d gotten to my feet, he’d also stood, blocking the doorway.

As I stood staring into his fierce blue eyes, I realized for the first time that I was nearly an inch taller than he was. This made me feel stronger, meeting his gaze with my jaw set. He looked taken aback by my sudden courage, reading it in my eyes, but regained his composure so quickly that I might have imagined the lapse entirely.

“You don’t ever cross me, kid. You don’t break any fucking rules because I’ll worse than kill you if you do. You cross me, you fucking cross me? Then my advice is to get as far away as you can as quick as you can. There’s no need for you to ever find out what I’ll do to you. You understand?” He was sharper, now; harder. Some of his infamous cruelty shone in his eyes and I understood completely.

“Yeah,” I said softly, surprised. There was something different in his gaze, some kind of vulnerability he didn’t want anyone to see. He’d been hurt and I knew it with sudden, shocking clarity. He’d lost someone.

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble with the last rule,” he breathed, flicker of humanity gone. “There is no such thing as love. Don’t forget it. There’ll be some client who tries to convince you otherwise, who’ll want you to run away with him. But it’s not true. It’s not fucking true. You forget that, you think that Richard Gere is going to sweep you off you fucking Pretty Woman feet, and I never want to see your goddamn face again.”

For a moment something dark crossed his face and I wanted to hug him, hold him close. Then I remembered his words, that I was forbidden to touch him, and I felt smug. He thought I wanted him? He was crazy.

“Good-night, Adam,” I drawled sweetly, unleashing my secret weapon: his name, his given name. Stunned, he was easy to push past, and I made sure to swing my hips for the benefit of his boring eyes as I retreated down the dark hallway and headed up the groaning stairs.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	4. Adam

My name.

How had he known my name?

I hadn’t heard it in years, not unless I spoke it quietly to myself in the night, trying not to forget. I didn’t use my name, not with anyone—I went by Carson, and that was enough. It was a name people knew, a name they paid well for. My girls, my boys—they were the best there were. And they were always silent. Mine weren’t sex scandal whores. The media, the wives—they never found out, not if the name you paid extra for was Carson.

As Carson, I was a legend. A symbol. I lived like a king, and my name was not only known, but respected and feared. I was someone. I meant something.

But Adam? Who was Adam? Adam was just a dumbfuck kid who fell in love with a whore.

I shook my head, hard. That was a long, long time ago.

I’d been young then, stupid. I didn’t fear the streets anymore—I owned them now. And I’d never again believe a merchant of seduction, never believe anyone—love wasn’t real, no matter how much you were willing to pay for it. It was only a finely crafted illusion that so many fell for.

I’d buried who I used to be, severed all strings. Forgotten them. Adam, son of god? That wasn’t who I was. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

So how had he known that name?

My thoughts kept me up most of the night, till sunrise was an invited enemy. Crawling out of bed, even exhausted, was a relief when daylight finally came.

I showered quickly, knowing the ancient, groaning pipes would bring the rest of the house to life.

Standing under the hot water, rubbing soap over my face, I had a brief little conference with myself.

Today, I thought firmly, there would be no lapses. Cologne was not an issue. I did not care how big and brown his eyes might be, he was nothing but an employee. A whore. And if I noticed that he was attractive, fine—that was just the businessman in me, assessing profit. Today, I’d pull myself together, pretend not to be a mess, and things would be different.

I ground the soap into my eyes, lids squeezed shut tight. When I was convinced I had achieved full lather, I flung them open, wide as I could, and stinging soap filled them. I barely bit off my scream of pain, allowing myself only a muffled growl of ‘fuck’, and slammed my fist into the poorly grouted orange-ish tile of the shower wall. I ran my eyes under the water, blinking soap suds and tears out of my eyes, and my vision slowly returned. Blurred as it was, I made out a few flecks of blood blooming on my knuckles. Good. This was exactly what I needed.

In spite of myself, in spite of everything, I found that a smile turned up my lips. Here I was, beating up the fucking shower and trying to pretend that this kid wasn’t getting to me? Damn. If _I_ couldn’t stop thinking about him, imagine what he’d do to the kind of man who was _looking_ for lust. Paying for it, even. He’d be the best product I’d ever sold.

And anyway—there were worse things the very thought of his bloody lips could have driven me to do in the shower.

I smirked, rubbing my palm across my still burning and now bloodshot eyes, and shut off the water.

I suddenly had a very good fucking feeling about this kid.

I took a few necessary moments to get dressed and rake my fingers through my hair, and it took effort to keep the grin off my face. I was excited, even if I was loathe to admit it. An hour around this kid and I was swimming with more emotions that I could have laid claim to in the last two months—surely, I tried unsuccessfully to convince myself, this was _not_ a good sign. But I couldn’t stop myself—I was actually looking forward to breaking in the new kid.

I winced, hearing even in my head how _that_ sounded. Not that I thought I was above sex or anything noble like that—sex was essential to my very existence. After all, I was only human. But I did not want sex from him. I didn’t want sex from any of mine. That was, to me, utterly repulsive. What kind of monster would I be, if I took advantage of my own employees? Would a CEO of a bank make one of his tellers personally manage his finances? If I let what I did become different from any other business, any other industry, then I wouldn’t be able to respect myself. I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore.

And there wasn’t anything wrong with my business. The way I operated was clean and safe, and it was nothing but interest in a growing industry. At least I wasn’t trafficking drugs. I was a humane employer, I was an exemplary salesman—I was good at what I did. And as long as I kept being good at what I did, my job security was almost infallible. Sex was, I had learned, the only thing a person could really believe in. It never changed and never went away. The demand would never lessen; the only flaw with the whole was that it wasn’t yet legal.

People say that money make the world go round. But the people who say that are uniformly terrible in bed. Naturally, the worse your sex life is, the less value you’re going to place on it—but what good have little green slips of paper ever done? The only reason people even want to have money is, if you boil it down, is to get laid. Whether or not they’re brave enough to buy it, sex is all anyone really wants. It’s a solid market, and it drives the world.

And that was the reason I’d built my career around it. Sex was something you could count on, something humans would always need. In fact, it was the only thing.

These thoughts took me all the way to his door. Now, I think it’s important that I make this clear: I would have knocked. I was not, in any kind of way, interested in taking advantage of him. Him or anyone—no matter how important sex was, I was about as likely to take it by force as I was to pay for it. Even for a guy ugly as mean as me, there were other options.

But knocking wasn’t even an option—the door was _open_. Forget locked—it wasn’t even closed. I shook my head, laughing in a way that had nothing to do with humor, and against my better judgment, pushed it open.  
And froze.

Instantly wishing I’d closed it myself, just so I could’ve knocked.

Knocked and avoided this.

The single most vulnerable creature I had ever seen was laying curled in the center of the creaking queen bed.

He was wearing his ridiculously tight black t-shirt and blue plaid boxers, to both of which I was boundlessly grateful if only because they covered as much of that pale, perfect temptation that they could, pale limbs pulled tight to his body. The blanket and sheets, which might have saved me, had been flung to the ground, and his smooth white skin looked helpless and cold. His eyes were shut, dark bruises of exhaustion stretching down to the mercilessly sharp edge of his cheekbones, giving way to horrible, hollowed cheeks, his soft pink lips closed tight around a secret and curled into a helpless frown. His hair was ruffled but tame, almost defeated, and the few curls at the base of his neck were tangled together carelessly. His breathing was shallow and unbearable, thrusting his ribs apart till it was painful to look at again and again, and it was hard to believe his skin hadn’t given in and pulled into jagged, bleeding strips. The cuts and bruises I was suddenly horribly aware of having inflicted were ridiculously vibrant against his skin, which didn’t have any color at all; and just peeking out from under his sleeve, another ugly mark of pain, was a thick purple scar that stretched across his meager bicep. On the other arm, a tattoo that seemed almost grotesque colored his skin, and the intricate bands that would be beautiful on anyone else were almost horrific on this poor, pathetic creature.

His hands were the worst part, long knobby fingers digging into the mattress, great handfuls of sheet clenched in each fist, tendons strained, white on white casting green, bruise-like shadows between each knuckle. His skin was practically transparent, so insufficient that you could see every detail of his bones, and the handfuls of sheet were the only thing keeping his ferocious nails out of his own white flesh.

A sound not unlike keening clawed its way up my throat and out of my mouth, and I staggered back into the doorframe. And that goddamn cologne—the smell was everywhere, pervasive and irresistible, and if he weren’t so horrifically beautiful memory would have seized and killed me. The look of his face and skin, bruised and lovely, lips crusted with blood, was too much. All of it was just too much.

 _Away_ , everything inside my brain screamed, desperate in self-preservation, but my body was a rock, unresponsive, and I couldn’t move. Sheer force of desolation knocked me back again, stumbling, lungs empty and desperate, and it was in this fashion I fell out into the hall, agony painted plain across my stricken face.

Pale and thin and beaten, smelling like he did, just the sight of him so soft and sad and sleeping—I was overwhelmed with a thousand things I swore I’d never feel. Grief, this terrible compassionate agony, pity, some sort of warm fondness and worry spreading in my chest, and worst of all, insurmountable lust so great that even now, even in my own house, an excess of unwelcome blood was rushing to a completely off-limits part of my body. All of these things, forbidden. Unforgivable.

Fatal.

This was going to be an even bigger problem than I’d anticipated.

Unable to breathe, I managed to force my body back further till I was entirely out of his room. It made no difference—he was framed in the doorway and my clothes seemed to have absorbed his smell. And then I ran directly into a godsend.

Into Kelley.

Porcelain-skinned, hair black and curly, his shadowed green eyes were still heavy-lidded with sleep and he peered over my shoulder into the room I’d just vacated.

“Damn, that’s one sorry sight,” Kelley said softly, mellifluous voice gravelly and less sensual than usual, eyes flicking quickly. Calculation. He was wearing loose flannel pants, nothing else, showcasing his taut stomach muscles and belying his extensive wardrobe. He was shorter than I was, limbs long and graceful, and he leaned against the doorframe, the curves of his body like liquid. Very carefully perfect. Very deliberately numb.

Kelley and I had always been on good terms. He was so beautiful it was almost obscene; but beyond this, we were alarmingly similar people. He gave me the moment I needed to compose myself, kept his eyes mercifully on the new kid.

“He got a name?” Kelley asked. He liked what he saw, if in his own reserved way.

“Seems likely,” I answered, voice gruff, keeping my eyes on Kelley and away from the exposed white skin that had provoked such an unwelcome and dangerous reaction. “Lend him some clothes, would you?”

Kelley nodded dutifully, tearing his eyes away with some effort, pity on his face. “I hope you weren’t the one who hit him like that,” he said mildly, locking his green, scrutinizing gaze on me. “That’s not going to foster a whole lot of trust.”

“On the contrary,” I argued, careful to keep my voice emotionless and even. I was being the way I got with Kelley—what could be called friendly, not that I knew much about that, but still very carefully detached. “It was necessary.”

A dark look crossed Kelley’s face and he frowned, if possible made even more beautiful with his look of distaste. He knew better than to say anything, but I read the look on his flawless face.

“All he needs from you,” I growled, a warning, “is clothes. Once he’s dressed, send him down.”

Kelley nodded soundlessly, and I pushed past him down the stairs. He leapt out of the way like my skin would burn him, an effect I was used to. An effect I was frighteningly dependant on. Accidental contact led to casual contact led to the total destruction of the barriers I needed to survive—touching me in any way was utterly forbidden, and everyone who was still working for me knew it well.

I passed no one on the way to the kitchen; left to fend for myself, I arranged the balanced breakfast of a slice of bread and freshly expired orange juice all on my own.

Someone desperately needed to go to the grocery store, and I had the sinking suspicion it might be me.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	5. Jade

I woke to eyes.

I could feel them and I was cold.

The next thing I was was in agony.

A small moan escaped my lips, and I felt them crack. I managed a thought, distended and so very far away, and it was that the blood, warm and wet, might feel nice. Might soothe some of the stiff, pulsing pain that was devouring my entire body.

I uncurled myself, everything I stretched cracking painfully, bruises screaming and cuts reopening, and finally opened my eyes. Rolling over was impossible but I did it, and confronted the eyes that woke me.

I coughed, and this seemed like a good idea until I did it, which was when I realized that all it did was make me hurt even more. My voice was a low, scratching whisper, but I had an important question. “Where am I?” I asked the green-eyed intruder.

Even as I spoke, I was awed by how beautiful he was, how perfect. Tousled curls, the loveliest eyes I’d ever seen, skin so pale that I could see where every blue vein came from and where each was going. I was pale, too, but on me it was unhealthy, malnourished—on him it was a lesson in elegance. His limbs, too, were perfectly proportioned, slender and graceful, not like my gangly arms and unwieldy legs. He was just tall enough, and under his perfect skin was muscle just as flawless. Looking at someone like him made the impossible feat of speaking even more difficult, but I couldn’t look away.

His face split into a blinding smile, teeth perfect and sharp and a shade beyond white, and I thought I might cry just looking at him. “Safe,” he laughed, seeing the fear in my eyes. He had to know how much I hurt from looking at me; I couldn’t be in this much pain without some hideous marks to show for it. “In your room.”

His voice, sweet and musical, made the enchantment complete. He was every man and woman’s dream. The smell, faint but distinct, that came off his skin made it hard to breathe. I could no longer tell if my dizziness was from my pounding headache or pure lust.

But, despite the sudden necessity to scrabble for a blanket to cover myself with, whoever-he-was did trigger my memory and all the events of the previous night came back to me. I was in the home of Adam Carson, and—if the god’s words were true—it was now my home as well.

Sitting up straight, blankets heaped in my lap pretty conspicuously, I asked, “Who are you?”

His eyes glittered, and I could tell that he was laughing at my problem, however silently. I was relieved that he wasn’t offended for a moment, before I realized that he was simply used to it. He must work here as well—that meant it was his job to get this kind of reaction. It was his job to be gorgeous and sensual.

I tried hard to remember why I’d thought I’d be any good at this. Next to him, I was nothing.

I felt my jaw drop slightly as he crossed the room towards me. Suddenly, I didn’t hurt anymore—he was the whole world. This time, he laughed out loud, and the sound of that was perfect, too, light and gentle.

“May I?” he asked, less than two feet from me and gesturing to my bed. I must have nodded, because he perched on the lip of the mattress. We were now a mere nine inches from one another, and my whole body was quivering.

“My name is Kelley,” he said lightly, offering his hand. I shook it and tried hard not to gasp.

He smirked, but not unkindly, taking back his hand, which I was still holding quite firmly. “I’m Jade,” I squeaked, voice painfully high-pitched. I was so _flawed_ next to him. So rough and ugly and small.

“Relax, Jade,” he said sweetly, eyes still laughing. “You’re still here, aren’t you? If Mr. Carson was going intended to throw you out, you would have hardly been allowed to stay the night.”

I dug up my last shred of self-confidence, pulling my usual façade of boyish arrogance out of thin air for one precious moment. “So is your pretending that my noticeable discomfort has nothing to do with you supposed to be cute?” I asked, half mocking and half flirting. Okay—mostly flirting.

For a moment, Kelley looked pleased. Then he flicked his curls out of his eyes and said seriously, “I need you to take off those clothes.”

“What?” I asked dumbly. Take of my _clothes_? Just because he was a whore—I mean, he was gorgeous, but I didn’t think he’d jump into bed with me just because I’d flirted—and then a thought occurred to me. Would I have to pay him? Did he mean this to be business? Or—another thought—had Adam sent him? To _train_ me?

But then all thought ground to a halt and his hands were on me. Cold and soft, his slender fingers slid up under my shirt, gripping the hem. A lift and a tug and I was shirtless—he was good at this, practiced. “W-why?” I stammered.

Kelley tipped his head back to laugh and the cool marble column of his throat captivated me, definitely not helping the situation brewing underneath the sheets piled in my lap.

“Boxers,” was his only answer, light and amused and sexy as all hell.

“No,” I stammered, tightening my grip on the sheet. The confidence I’d mustered had long since fled, and what I was concealing was beyond humiliating.

Kelley raised his eyebrows and pulled gently on a corner of the sheet. “C’mon now,” he coaxed. “There’s no need to be shy.”

And without any warning, he tugged the sheet completely away, milk skin and lithe limbs hiding muscle I hadn’t foreseen. “Oh my,” he said lightly, perfect voice mocking now as he took in my situation.

I burned, a blush I knew to be scarlet claiming my neck, face, and ears. It was only my last scrap of dignity that kept me from apologizing, and once that had been exhausted I wasn’t sure what I might do.

He surveyed the flames crawling up my cheeks and pursed his lips. “Oh, that won’t do at all. There’s no need to be embarrassed. I assure you, it even happens to me from time to time.”

Now I felt shame for the unwilling worship, like an idiot. A very, very exposed idiot.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes and staring instead at the grainy wood floor.

“Now I’m offended,” he said gently, warm smile spreading once I met his dark eyes in alarm. “Come on, Jade. Off with them.”

The way he handled my name, so lovingly, his tongue caressing it’s suddenly velvet syllables, convinced me. I awkwardly tucked my fingers under the elastic waistband and pulled at it, tugging them down. Free of my hips—and I was infinitely grateful I didn’t fumble them or get stuck—the thin fabric dropped, pooling despondently around my bony ankles. I stepped out of them, stumbling and graceless, and he steadied me with his hands on my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I breathed, words sticking in my throat as I stared into his eyes, terrified to look away. I registered dimly that I was shaking. I didn’t know where to go from here. I wasn’t sure how this, anything like this, was supposed to happen. Sex was not a timid or formal thing; it didn’t happen head-on like this. When people bought it in alleys, they were very straightforward about it; and when it was hands that smelled like sour milk closing in from behind you, forcing you down and muffling your screams and tearing your clothes, when you were left bleeding in the bathtub and trying not to cry and dreading the hours till he came home from work—that wasn’t like this either.

I shivered, and he dropped his quick, slim hands to my sides, where he slowly dragged his deft fingers across my ribs. His eyes followed. “My god,” he murmured. “When did you last eat?”

He looked back into my eyes with his question. I was ashamed again; my voice was small, my answer terse. “Wednesday.”

Kelley looked alarmed, face lip up with worry. “It’s Monday!”

“I’ve gone longer,” I said defensively, suddenly growing defiant. I wouldn’t have anyone telling me how to live. Who was he to judge me? Some fucking prostitute? That didn’t make him any better than me!

Kelley merely nodded, brief display of emotion gone as quickly as it had come. While he skillfully mastered himself, I made a very rash, very bad, decision.

I stepped forward and quickly, almost forcefully, kissed him.

Kelley jerked away violently, looks of fury and disgust and alarm chasing each other across his perfect face before he settled on a frown, eyes black and ambiguous. A bad sign.

I blurted out, “I don’t really know how this is supposed to go, I’ve never really—”

But the flash in his eyes stopped me dead.

Then he pulled his face into a flat porcelain mask, and I realized I only saw him as he wanted me to. He chose my perceptions for me.

This only pissed me off.

I wanted to make my own decisions about him. I wanted to see what he really was and the fact he wouldn’t show me infuriated me. I based my reality around people’s actions and emotions—who was he to pre-apply a filter? No wonder I was reacting so badly. What kind of personal control could I maintain when he was ripping the rules out from under my feet? Forget shy. I was seriously pissed.

“I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong idea,” Kelley said unpleasantly, voice soft and nasty. “Mr. Carson’s asked me to get you some fresh clothes. That’s all I want from you, Jade.”

My stomach went cold. Of course. Of course.

I felt something in my chest that seemed a lot like tears. No. Fuck crying.

Fuck crying! I. Was. Better.

Somehow, my rage gave me back to myself, and I sneered, shrugging slightly. “Your loss,” I said silkily, voice twisted with sudden hatred.

“I’ll, um, I’ll grab you some of my clothes,” Kelley said uncomfortably, backing towards the door, frightened by the sudden change in me.

“Will they fit?” I asked, proud and carefully doubtful, eyeing his hips, which were wider than mind, and his much shorter legs.

The display of vanity had the desired effect, and I was satisfied to see a faint blush prickling at his neck. So I’d gotten to the ivory god, who had tried so very hard to take advantage of me, to humiliate me.

“I—I am sorry,” he added softly, a look on his face like he couldn’t believe his own words, like he detested them. But there, in his eyes—that he meant them. “I—Mr. Carson said—that clothes were all I could give you.” His voice dropped to a low, embarrassed hum on the last words.

“But Kelley,” I said, voice as sweet as I could make it if thick with scorn, “you weren’t going to _give_ me anything.”

A scowl creased his flawless features, now somehow grotesque in their perfection rather than beautiful, and I could see on his face the effort it took to keep his mouth shut as he pivoted sharply and walked out of my room.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	6. Adam

I had just finished eating when I smelled him enter the kitchen.

“You’re still here,” I said, low in my throat, trying my best to sound like I hadn’t been watching him sleep mere minutes ago, like I didn’t care one way or the other where he was. I was embarrassed for him, having seen that and him not even knowing—I felt like I had intruded on something private, a weak and secret thing no one was meant to see. That he’d fall to pieces if he knew I’d seen his secret self.

Wordlessly, he sat down across from me, same as the night before. I took in his appearance quickly, like a man starving—and he was a feast. Another tight t-shirt, this one grey and hopefully smelling like Kelley’s skin rather than his own, and frayed jeans tat were too short and too loose to really suit him, and a cheap white vinyl belt that, in attempt to hold the jeans in place, was slung low on his hips, baring a thin, tantalizing strip of that skin. Even so, in this scruffy assortment of clothes, he looked… poised. Like they were clothes he was born to wear. His hair was airy, ruffled—slept on. The remnants of his eyeliner were smudged slightly, smoky under his bottomless brown eyes. Fresh out of bed, and he was still practically a runway model. Damn.

I had underestimated what I was up against, that was for sure—and also his worth. Didn’t matter if he was in his slutday best or tattered and bloody—he was irresistible, godlike, yet boyish and innocent and utterly charming. Before I had time to be grateful, I caught a wave of his goddamn cologne.

“That cologne you’ve got,” I blurted impulsively, regretting every weak word. “Stop wearing it. Clients—well, there shouldn’t’ be anything distinct about you.”

He smirked. “No matter what I smell like, I’m not going to blend,” he purred, and I saw something different in him. Some kind of desperate coldness, an edge he hadn’t had before—already, he’d grown harder, wanting only to survive. One night in this house and his innocence was waning—this life, this business, would so warp and blacken him that he wouldn’t even know himself. It was only a matter of time. I knew this.

But I hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly, so soon—already some of the brightness in his eyes had been reduced to metallic determination.

God.

One night, already I was killing him.

“Besides—I’m not wearing any cologne, Adam,” he went on, oblivious to my anguish.

And his words sank in. That was impossible. He could not _naturally_ smell that way. It was not _possible_ that he naturally smell that way. God did not want me to kill myself _that_ badly, I was sure of it.

The next question that fell out of my mouth was equally unprecedented, this a direct result of the stunning blow his last comment had delivered. Unchecked, my mouth was doing its damndest to humiliate me. “Why did you call me that?”

So much for today being different and all that idealistic bullshit.

“Call you what?” he asked sweetly, eyes sparkling. He was going to make me say it, my name, out loud. To him.

I was smarter than that. I couldn’t keep forgetting—I was smarter than him. That’s why he was the one selling himself, dying day-by-day from the inside out, and I was the one enjoying the fruits of his labor and making much blunter attempts.

“That name,” I parried coolly.

His face didn’t change, unfazed by my subtle victory. “You mean Adam?” he over-enunciated, making the word unbearably sharp. I kept underestimating him. “I imagine I’ve been calling you that because it’s your name. Isn’t it, Adam?”

“I don’t go by that anymore,” I floundered dumbly. I was a mess, not the man I knew I should be. Composing myself marginally, I barked out the order, “Don’t call me that anymore.”

His eyes bored into me, so wide and soulless and sad, seeming to demand what right I had to give him orders, after what I’d done to him. When he was so clearly the one in charge.

My resolve buckled and I gave him the first unforgivable victory, the biggest mistake I’d ever make. “Not when—other people are around.” I just barely stopped myself from saying ‘please’, unable to take my eyes off his purple bruises or gritty brown scabs.

A wide grin stretched across his face. That was, I believe, the exact moment that I realized I’d lost my mind, lost my edge, lost all control. It was all I could do to keep my rage concealed, all I could do not to slam him up against the cabinets and pound his smirking face into a pulp.

I pitched my voice low, a largely feral growl. “I have a client coming by in a few minutes to take a look at you. You will not speak unless spoken to and you will do what is asked, do you understand?”

He looked positively gleeful, seeing straight through my ruse to regain power. “Yes, Adam.”

I doubt he knew how close he came to losing his life with those words. I would have killed him gladly, the smell of his blood mercifully blocking out the scent that could in no way be coming off his skin, and felt nothing for a long, long time after. And when I did, it would not be regret. It would be relief.

Concern passed over his face, probably picking out some of the screaming homicide in my eyes, but at the exact moment, Ehren stumbled into the kitchen, bleary with sleep. Ehren was nothing special, not if you just looked at him. It was when he smiled, or put on a tux, or you slept with him that you realized how incredible he was. It was also when he spoke to you, animated and saying things so wickedly clever you didn’t figure them out for house.

Ehren probably saved his life.

Bewildered, Ehren looked from him to me, golden eyes sparking, tawny hair shaggy over his eyes. His lips were big, his smile twisted, the skew of his nose giving him an exotic sort of charm—he was attractive, but in a surreal, frightening kind of way. He didn’t look like he belonged here—but anyone who thought that had never slept with him.

There weren’t even words for the sort of god Ehren was in bed. He was so good that, after a night with him, I’d offered him a job at a base rate larger than I’d ever paid anyone. He now received eighty-five percent of his profits—my highest paid, but the most in demand. He also had the uncanny ability to put you at ease in his presence; even now, the agitation of the room began to lessen.

“Morning,” he said cautiously, his likable, usually laugh-tinged voice smoothing out the air in the kitchen. “Who’s this?”

Even as he asked, it was my eyes he stared into, stern and questioning. “Calm down,” he muttered under his breath, at the same time the other said brightly, “I’m Jade!”

Ehren turned toward him, satisfied that I had indeed calmed down from the point of violence, grown slow and placid under his gaze. I couldn’t help it; his honey-colored eyes always seemed to numb my thoughts and slow my down. “And what brings you here, Jade?” he asked pleasantly. He was wearing a tattered jersey and boxers and his eyes were the only thing about him that seemed awake. They were ceaseless in their movement, casting the entire room in their liquid amber glow.

Jade—his name was Jade—looked pleased with Ehren’s attentions, but I noticed something in his eyes, something dark and swirling and distrustful. “Everyone always told me I was good enough to charge,” he said lightly, an obvious boast and also a lie, shrugging playfully.

Ehren’s eyes flashed. One thing you could say about him was that he detested being lied to—even Kelley knew to drop his act around Ehren. “And what happened to you?” he went on, voice imperceptibly colder. I doubt that the boy—Jade—even noticed.

Jade grinned at me, gesturing discreetly in my direction. I suspect he hoped for more of a reaction from Ehren; possibly even sympathy.

Well, he had a lot to learn.

“Then you got off light,” Ehren said appraisingly, raising his eyebrows at me. The swirling gold of his eyes held only questions, suspicions and, I was sure, a certain number of stern reprimands. “Not going soft, are you?” he asked me playfully, warning pitched deeper in his tone where Jade wouldn’t find it. My empire was built on my reputation. He was reminding me that I could not afford to slip up.

None of us could.

“It was nice meeting you, Jade,” Ehren called over his shoulder, which I knew to be solid with muscle, strong enough to snap a man like Kelley—or Jade—in half. “Next time we talk, let’s try to keep the lying to a minimum, ‘kay?”

Ehren didn’t even turn to see Jade’s squirming, scarlet blush. That’s what I mean when I call him a good person; better than most of us. He wasn’t petty or cruel or beautiful—he was honest and calm. Admirable, I suppose. Unlike the rest of us, he probably could have done better for himself.

“How’d he know I was lying?” Jade asked quietly, staring down at his interlaced fingers. Finally humbled.

I didn’t have an answer for him. We sat in silence, and just when he grew so uncomfortable under my unrelenting gaze I thought he might burst, the doorbell rang. I heard an audible sigh of relief when I got up to answer it.

I buttoned up my shirt on the way to the door, opening it with my most neutral expression. “Good morning, Mr. Burgan,” I greeted the man on the threshold politely; he rubbed the back of his shaven head nodded in response. As always, his quick blue eyes took everything in before he entered the house. It was only once the door was shut behind him and he was sure he was in safe territory that he met my eyes and spoke.

“I received your invitation early this morning,” he said, flicking his tongue over his teeth, cunning silken voice level and cordial. “I take it you’ve hired someone—ah—exceptional?”

He fidgeted with the lapels of his dark suit, next straightening his scarlet tie. Hunter Burgan was a very rich and important man, one of my most frequent, high-paying, and important customers. He was quick and nervous and cruel and I utterly detested him. His smile was predatory, his teeth sharp. The things he’d made my employees do—more than once, a girl had come home shaking and sobbing, so broken she hadn’t worked for weeks—more than once, I’d been begged for mercy, not to make him or her return—made my skin crawl.

His bright, deadly eyes bored into me, and I straightened up, silently making my physical prowess known. When he was next to me, his money didn’t matter—here, he was a guest, expected to behave or lose his privileges and potentially a lot of blood. He seemed to notice that minute gesture, nodding his head and making himself somehow seem smaller, less threatening.

“Yes,” I answered simply. “Of course, it’ll be a few days before he’s ready for any work, but I know how you like to meet all your options.”

“And may I reserve the right to his first—ah—appointment? Provided I like what I see?” Burgan asked, a dark and oily quality to his voice. I knew things about him, things that he did—and I knew he’d do his best to make Jade hurt, to leave a mark no one could see. He wanted the boy untouched, to be the first.

Suddenly grateful to the horrible bruises I’d left, I felt the desire to shield Jade, hide and protect him from this monster of a man.

Stupid. Irrational.

Impossible.

I shook my head, attempting to clear it, and just barely stopped myself from saying no outright. “He’ll go to the highest bidder, Burgan, you know that.”

“Of course,” he conceded demurely, dipping his head so I wouldn’t see his fury. It was obvious enough from the set of his shoulders, impossible for even him to hide. “You’ve never been one to make exceptions.”

“Favoritism will get me nowhere. As a businessman, you should understand that,” I said mildly.

Our banter, a thinly veiled struggle for dominance, carried us to the kitchen, where I knew Jade was waiting, terrified but somehow eager. I held my breath unconsciously, stepping aside so Hunter’s greedy, flashing eyes could pull him over the threshold.

His tongue touched the corner of his mouth, which had curled into a terrible smile, and his eyes were beady with greed. His voice came gleeful and gloating and deceptively soft, as if he had come in friendship, as if there was any kind of kindness left within him.

“Why hello,” he purred, offering his hand politely. I saw Jade relax, thinking he was in good company, among friends. I stared hard at him, trying to warm him with my eyes. Couldn’t he feel it, everything in his skin screaming no, that this was wrong? Couldn’t he smell the blood coming off Burgan’s skin? Didn’t his stomach churn, skin crawling under those slimy eyes? I bit back a growl, muscles tensing as my whole body stiffened. He was oblivious, climbing cheerfully into this man’s claws, turning up his helpless white skin, eager to be slashed.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jade said, voice thick and slow, eyes dragging, lips full and blushing—he was _trying_ , I realized with a jolt. Seducing Burgan, of all awful men on the earth. His bruises, or the shabby appearance of the kitchen, might have been enough to turn Burgan off of him—but now, slinky and sensual, there was no hope. I surreptitiously eyed Hunter’s face, looking for the security Jade had found—but I could see only the predatory set of his teeth, the dark gleam in his eyes, and the far too familiar cruelty of his features.

Hunter no longer held eye contact, letting his sharp blue eyes roam Jade’s body obviously, shamelessly. But even this did not cloud Jade’s face; he instead looked proud, glad to be an object. And Burgan’s eyes were hungry, never ceasing, calculating the roundness of Jade’s thighs, the firm planes of his shoulders, lingering too long on the noticeable lack of an ass. A slight frown touched Hunter’s lips, but he masked it quickly.

“What, don’t you feed him?” Burgan muttered to me out of the corner of his mouth.

“He’s new,” I replied, shrugging. Better to let him think I cared nothing for Jade’s welfare. Better, really, if I truly did not—but of course I did. I told myself I had to, as his employer, but even I had trouble believing it. “What has he earned?”

“Aside from the bruises, of course,” the despicable man said slyly, grinning and licking his bottom lip. “Is this a more—ah—hands-on model, then?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied, voice little more than a growl. I’d be happy to kill this man. It would be my utmost pleasure, really, to snap him in half. “You know the rules, Mr. Burgan.”

He looked infuriated, a look in his eyes screaming of his desire to inflict pain on skinny little Jade. “Who, then? Was it you who inflicted these bruises? Is it jealously that keeps him from me?”

My cheeks flushed, something that had not happened for a long time, and I felt something even stronger than rage fill me. I barely forced out the words.

“No—it’s policy,” I spat, but he knew he’d struck a nerve and I hated him for that, had I not hated him enough already.

“Shouldn’t that be up to him to decide?” Burgan asked delicately. The sultry expression on Jade’s face had faded, some kind of resigned resentment fraying the corners of his mouth. Hunter ran a disgusting finger down Jade’s jaw, and I saw him fight off a shudder. Good—he needed to learn this fear. Jade closed his eyes, composed himself, and leaned into Burgan’s touch as if he enjoyed it. I gritted my teeth. He was far too good at this.

“Maybe this prize doesn’t have the same ridiculous rules as his master,” Burgan went on, forked tongue flickering, and Jade visibly steeled himself against the man’s touch. “Turn around, won’t you? I’d like to see… the rest of what you have to offer.”

Jade obliged, and Burgan looked to me. “May I?” he asked silkily, settling a hand on the waist of Jade’s loose jeans. I could not see the pleading look in Jade’s eyes, but I knew it had to be there. But I’d always allowed this. I could not make too large an exception without Burgan noticing.

“If he’s all right with it,” I said grudgingly, knowing already that Jade would not say no.

“Your clothes,” Burgan demanded, tugging Jade’s belt loop. “I want them off. You don’t need them, do you?”

Jade spun around to stare into Hunter’s wolfish grin, eyes inexplicably dark and wide and furious.

“Yes, I do need them!” he said, quiet but firm, allure gone from his person as he shocked us both.

Hunter caught his belt easily, undoing the buckle with his thumb in an instant.

That instant was all it took for Jade to yelp and lash out with his hand, for Hunter to catch him by the wrist without ever looking up from his work, and for me to cross the kitchen and wrap a thick arm around Burgan’s waist from behind.

I was the first one with the presence of mind and vocal freedom to speak. “Let him go,” I spat, voice guttural, flexing my arm and cutting off the foul man’s airflow. “I don’t care what the fuck you do with him on your own time, but you will not lay a hand on him in my house!”

Burgan let Jade’s wrist fall limp, Jade’s horrible vacant eyes riveted on Hunter’s face, and I spun him into a wall, letting go of his neck only to bar my arm across it, from the front this time, to keep him pinned to the wall. He sputtered, face red and eyes streaming, and I shoved my face up close to his.

“I don’t care who you are, Burgan, and I’ll only say this once: watch your goddamn step. Your reign here is ending.”

I let him go before I could hurt him, breathing heavy and more than slightly shaking.

Jade had backed away, now pressed against the stove. His cheeks were flushed and he stared at us with wide eyes, filled with shame, as he held his quickly bruising wrist loosely in the other hand.

“Watch your own fucking step!” Hunter yelped, fury shining unmasked in his eyes. He surprised me then; he mastered himself. Instead of striking me or Jade, he merely turned on heel. “You will notify me when bidding begins, Mr. Carson, or you will find yourself in more trouble than even you can bully your way out of,” he added coldly, and then saw himself out.

I bristled, of course; threats being things that never went over terribly well with my kind, and it was not who Burgan was or what he could do that stopped me from going after him and ripping his throat out—it was only the presence of Jade’s innocent but far too scarred eyes that saved him.

Instead of following, I cracked my neck and crossed the kitchen, stopping only a few inches shy of Jade’s side.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” he murmured, looking at the floor, and I flinched from the name. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Jade. That decision was yours to make,” I refuted, letting my voice go gentle for just a moment. “Don’t—please just don’t trust him, okay? He’ll—he’ll do his best to hurt you. Don’t make it any easier.”

Jade looked up at me, painfully open and trusting. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I-I thought he seemed okay.”

The water heater groaned as someone upstairs started their shower and the sound brought us both back to ourselves.

“I expect you to behave differently in future interviews,” I ordered gruffly, no longer gentle, sliver of humanity forgotten before Jade could make something from it.

“Anything for you,” Jade said silkily, adopting his coquettish manner easily. He slunk forward, hips angling closer to mine than any employee had dared for a long time. “Just say the word,” he added, deliberately a little breathless, letting his eyes slide over me, head to toe.

I let out a low snarl, and he stepped back, eyebrows raised, looking impressed. “We can play that way too,” he breathed, cocking his head to one side and examining me, eyes dragging seductively. He had really mastered his craft. “You can pretend you don’t want me if you really feel the need.”

“Save it for your clients,” I spat, wheeling out of the room, “or you’re going to _really feel_ the need for stitches.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	7. Jade

Adam’s rejection was the only I’d ever known.

No one turned me down for sex. _No one._

Not till him.

I thought his threat of ‘save it for tonight’ meant that he would seek me then. And at first, it did seem that way.

By nightfall, I had been bathed and dressed in my own skin-tight black jeans and someone else’s soft grey v-neck sweater, designed to be snug but wasted on my stick-thin frame. Its perks were what it did for my eyes, the way it flattered my arms, and that for once you could not see my ribs. I just looked too thin for the sweater, not like I’d been starving for that last few months, helpless but too proud to admit it.

A redheaded girl who wore too much too-red lipstick had done my eyeliner, thicker and smokier than anything I’d have done myself.

“Does he like that?” I asked skeptically, examining myself in a mirror when she was done. I’d seen Adam as a more no-frills kind of guy, rough violent sex that didn’t give a damn about clothes, hair or makeup. But then, she knew him better than I, didn’t she?

She cocked her head to one side and raised her eyebrows. “Counting your chickens, aren’t you?” she asked softly. I misunderstood her, of course. I didn’t know she wasn’t referring to Adam.

She called herself Nick, said it was short for Nicotine, and had a lazy smile, Southern drawl, and a lusty promise that she was every bit as addictive as her namesake.  
When she was done with me, she sent me downstairs. “It’ll be a while yet,” she told me reassuringly, but it did little to soothe my nerves.

Twitching and waiting, leaping at every sound and grossly uncomfortable, I cleaned the kitchen furiously as the hour dragged on, leisurely approaching seven.

I had exhausted all cleaning possibilities and was laying on my back on the counter, head lolling back into the sink and listless, when I heard Adam’s voice.

“Knock, knock, Jade,” he called teasingly.

Surprised at his tone, I straightened quickly, blood rushing to my head. When my vision returned, I pulled a crooked smile, slipping off the counter and sauntering towards the men hovering in my doorway.

So my utmost confusion, Adam was not alone.

“This is Jade, our newest,” Adam was saying conversationally while I struggled desperately to control my shock. “If he suits your tastes, this will be his first assignment—which, I believe, makes him a good match.”

“He looks like the other one,” the man said softly. He was an honorable looking man, dressed well in an obviously expensive seersucker suit and equipped with an impressive, graying mustache. Something about the way his cloudy blue eyes handled me made it hard to believe he was here to fuck me, in this place. He was too much a gentleman, too high class.

“You must be talking about Kelley? Yes, they are a bit similar, but believe me when I say his talents are far different from Kelley’s. You will remember that Kelley was cold; Jade, here, has the best spark I’ve ever seen. Much younger, and less—if you’ll pardon the word choice—jaded. A lack of conceit also makes him much more human, and his insecurity makes for a good match,” Adam spoke quickly, voice smooth and even. His face was blank, unreadable—he studied me like I was a rib-eye he was serving, or perhaps a pair of shoes.

I felt more like the cow sacrificed for both.

My eyes burned with tears I could never cry—damn Adam. He’d known what he’d been doing, I was sure of it.

“He should do,” the man mused to himself, consenting and looking me over. Then, shockingly, he looked up into my eyes as if looking for approval. “Why so sad?” he asked me.

The thought of such a thing surprised me. That this man should care if I was sad. Did he think pick-up lines were necessary? No—he’d bought sex before. He should know by now. I shook my head, forcing a smile over my lips. I had an opportunity to make money tonight, and sitting there with a dumb look on my face was not going to cut it.

“From where I’m standing, there’s no reason to be sad,” I said sweetly, as convincingly seductive as possible. It didn’t matter if my heart wasn’t in it—it didn’t matter to this man how good I was at my craft. He’d made up his mind and Adam had provided the first time excuse for me.

“Are you for sale, then?” the man asked formally.

I laughed, trying to sound light and enjoyable. Alluring. “I believe Mr. Carson is the one you should be asking,” I told him.

He frowned at the bruises and cuts still dark on my face and turned to Adam. “He looks more like he should be in bed with an ice pack than another man,” he commented. A sharp look from Adam and he amended, “But I suppose it’s not my place.” He turned back to me. “Now, my son has just turned twenty-one a few months. This is a sort of… gift for him. For both of us, really,” he added with a laugh that was not nearly uncomfortable enough. “Would that be suitable for you?”

It had been almost two months, frequenting seedy motels and unlit alleys, that I had been doing this. Before I finally found Adam. And I had still never managed to meet a man like this.

Oh, the difference money made!

“Yes,” I said coolly, more relaxed once he said he was not the one who wanted me. I didn’t think I could fuck such a refined man. “That would be lovely.”

“Wonderful,” he answered, looking pleased. “You were right, Mr. Carson. Exemplary choice. Look—my son’s in the car—I’ll send him in, okay?”

I nodded vigorously, almost excited by the prospect, my first real job. Feeling Adam’s eyes on me didn’t hurt, either. And yet there was a sort of helplessness—I didn’t know how to behave in this sort of situation.

In my experience, sex was not so public or negotiable—it had always been a dark and ugly secret in my life. Not something proud—not something done under full halogen lights and a rickety kitchen table.

These thoughts carried me till yet another shadow breached the doorframe. This one’s blond flattop, scared and pale and looking eight years younger than he was thanks to that haircut, solicited a reaction from Adam, who had been studying his fingernails, clearly bored.

“David! So wonderful to see you again,” Adam greeted him tonelessly, polite but not warm. “I would like you to meet Jade. Jade, this is David’s first visit here, but not his first use of our services. Also, his father—Mr. Marchand, who you just spoke to—has long been a friend of mine and a loyal patron. David will be your guest this evening; do not hesitate to make him at home. Mr. Marchand has an appointment with Emily, and I’ll give you two a wide berth—you won’t even know I’m here.” He said the last bit to the terrified-looking David, as if it were supposed to be reassuring. If anything, he looked even more anxious as Adam excused himself and our collective silence filled the kitchen more wholly than noise ever could have.

“You can relax,” I said softly, awkwardly, keeping my stance loose and non-threatening. He was sweating; his sweet brown eyes were panicked and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He, too, was wearing an expensive suit and a red tie; his face burned with a fierce blush and he mumbled something inaudible.

“What was that, David?” I asked, doing my best to sound friendly.

“You can call me Davey,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes. “I—I told him not to do this. My father,” he added abruptly, staring sharply into my eyes. “I didn’t want to come here. I’m not going to do this.”

I smiled, suddenly ecstatic. Nervous, shy—awkward Davey was a perfect first client. Even if I screwed up, he wouldn’t know. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

His ears flushed violently and he looked at his feet. “He’s gotten me girls before. And twice, he got me… guys. He’s reached the conclusion that I’m—that I’m g-gay, either that or a neuter, and he’d rather pay for the best than risking the public finding out about the private forays of the senator’s son.”

“That’s a yes?” I asked, letting my voice take on a playful edge as I stepped closer, sizing him up obviously. He was shorter than I was, less wiry. Built solid around the hips, an Italian chin, pleasing lips creased into a frown. He wasn’t so scary. This wasn’t so bad.

“I—I don’t want to sleep with a—a—”

“A whore?” I finished sweetly, enunciating so clearly he flinched. “Yes, I understand. But Davey… I think you should know something. You don’t have to sleep with me, the same way you didn’t have to sleep with the others. There are other things we can do.”

Alarm passed over his face and I laughed, adding quickly, “Like talking, I mean. I don’t have to be something your father paid for. I can be a person, too. I can—I mean, I probably could just be your friend.”

Davey relaxed noticeably, smiling warily, eyes vivid with relief. “All right,” he conceded. “I’d like to—to be your friend.” He sounded like it was a foreign concept, like he was trying out the word.

It was grossly endearing.

I led Davey from the kitchen to the deep maroon living room, all velvet curtains and aged mahogany and a stunning baby grand. The room was richly furnished, antique and surprisingly ornate, the proud crest of wealth marking the walls. The grandeur of this room visibly surprised me; so did the elaborate double doors, intricate and antique handles hung with sharply sparkling lengths of chain. Hanging from a dangling link was a flashing silver padlock.

Davey took no notice of the lock that made me shiver; instead, grinning ecstatically, he bounded to the piano’s side and ran his fingers over it. “Oh, it’s magnificent,” he breathed.

I perched on the stool. “Do you play?”

Davey blushed. “Oh, no; I haven’t got a single chord in my genes. There’s not an instrument I haven’t tried; I’m terrible at all of them.” He chuckled, still sounding nervous, not sure how to behave. “The cello was the worst of them, I think.”

“Why did you try so many?” I asked, running a single finger, listless and long, down the cold, milky keys. My face reflected in blocks, sparkling back at me from the shining black keys. A tingle ran itself down my spine; I’d never had a lesson in my life, but some instruments just spoke to me. This one was no exception; its soft mewling filled my head, making me dizzy and breathless with need, unable to think of anything but the itching melody swirling through my head, alive with the burning desire to play.

“Oh,” I gasped, splicing Davey’s answer, pulling my hand away from the pulsing electricity flowing restlessly along the keys. It was begging, now—writhing eloquently through my head, doing its damndest to suck me in.

Davey looked into my eyes, concerned and then amused. “You feel it, don’t you?” he asked softly. “The music. I feel it too—please, play if you can. Let me be part of what’s in your eyes.”

I needed no urging, only permission, and as soon as the words fell from his lips my fingers settled on the keys. Trembling in anticipation, unable to catch my breath, I let it fill me; and then, when I could not take it any longer, when I was drowning and bursting and gasping, I plunged into it, falling infinitely into the ever-expanding melody.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	8. Adam

It wasn’t the piano that brought me. I had never heard anything more sweet or sad or complex, but it didn’t bring me. It took my breath away, rendered me motionless, would have brought me to my knees if I’d allowed it—

It wasn’t the singing, either, even though the singing was probably the most beautiful and haunting thing I’d ever heard. The first voice was high and lilting. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was the most perfect sound I’d ever heard. The second voice was lower, a more hollow, resonant sound, the kind that filled you from the gut inward and, if you allowed it, was the kind of sound that would make you shiver and feel. If I had been that sort of man, I might have even mustered a cry.

Of course, it was hard to remember the last time I’d heard music. It was too emotional and superfluous to be bothered with. It was the stuff of memories and to be avoided whenever possible. The piano was mine, the first thing I’d ever bought, but I hadn’t played it without headphones on in years. I didn’t want to hear the music, I just wanted to play. The last time I’d heard myself, I’d been good—talent of any sort was a stupid thing to waste. Just because I couldn’t stand to hear it didn’t mean I had any excuse to stop playing.

So it wasn’t the perfect harmonies or the chilling melody that brought me. I was frozen, under a spell, unable to move—and then, abruptly, it ended. The piano first, in the middle of a measure, and the lower voice; and then the other voice faltered out into silence.

The silence was what brought me, rage swelling to take the place of the feeling the music had attempted to induce.

As far as I was concerned, playing a beautiful piece of music on my piano while I was in the house was as good as an attack on my life.

Maybe it was better.

Either way, I had a pretty good idea who’d committed this treason against me, and I was pretty sure he had wide kitten eyes, crooked teeth, thin little legs and a state authorized death wish.

Heart clenched in my chest, head swimming with insurmountable fury, my rationale was the only thing not out in full force as I blazed downstairs, prepared to descend upon Jade with all the fury of the heavens, prepared to beat him within an inch of his life and throw him into the gutter to bleed to death.

But when I reached the entryway, I paused. And looked.

And froze.

I swear to whatever god there might be, the only part of me that was moving for those next few minutes was my heart, and even that did its best to give out.

There, right in front of my eyes, was unfolding the apocalypse. Clothing strewn about the room; cushions scattered on the floor—and there, virgin extraordinaire, the unfuckable David Marchand was positioned behind Jade, red-faced, panting, and thrusting for all he was worth.

Six months, his extremely rich father had been buying my girls for his son. The farthest any of them had gotten was topless. He’d said all of two words to Kelley, after the infamous attempted blowjob incident, and Ehren’s attempt had been little more than an overpaid psychological chess game.

This was one hell of a first conquest. I knew I should be impressed—more than impressed, he’d successfully earned me one of the top five largest sums I’d ever made. Marchand’s father had offered to double his already excessive payment if dear little David got laid—thanks to Jade, I was now a quarter of a million dollars richer.

But this wasn’t what had me frozen. It wasn’t shock or awe or money. No, the part of the scene that so captivated me was Jade. Sprawled gracefully over the chaise lounge, lazily stroking himself, his eyes were wide open, a honey-gold catlike color, and he was staring directly into me.

A slow, seductive smile spread across his lips as David’s moaning built into unprecedented shrieks. A leisurely grin spread across Jade’s face, and his tongue flicked with feline grace over his pointed ivory teeth.

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and I was free; I tore myself away, white skin and amber eyes already haunting me, that perversely beautiful melody echoing still in my head, and sprinted up the stairs.

Suddenly painfully aware of the erection pressed hard against my thigh, I locked my door and headed directly for the shower. I turned the water so cold it stung and got in, refusing to acknowledge my disgustingly human reaction. I had long since ceased to experience the knee-jerk reaction to the exposure to the most carnal of pastimes—in my line of work, it was necessary. So there was no explanation as to why it took nearly a full hour under the icy water for my blood to cooperate; no plausible reason for those eyes to be burned into my memory.

Lips blue and shuddering painfully, I did not extract myself from the artic shower till I could not feel anything at all, below waist or otherwise, and I was so cold that breathing became an effort. Slowly, frozen, cramped joins unfolded, and I dried my numb body the best I could, fumbling pathetically, dressing in the lightest clothes I had. I did not want to get warm; I wanted this stiff, aching agony.

As I staggered downstairs, stabbing pain entered my legs, and I was glad. My body was complaining of cold? Fine. I’d warm it the hell up, then, if it couldn’t handle the cold.

Once I reached the kitchen, I twisted the knob for the front left burner on the stove, clumsily curling the numb fingers of my left hand around it as it lit. I held my hand still, even as warmth slowly reached it; even as my skin crackled and snapped like a bow of Rice Krispies; even as the pain came; even when the smell of my burning flesh filled the kitchen, I did not move. I couldn’t. I had been weak. It was necessary, now, to make myself strong. To suffer for what I’d let my body do.

A twisted, wicked grin parted my lips, my teeth glittering and lethal behind them.

I don’t know how long I would have stood there, agony slowly burning to my very core, but it hadn’t been nearly long enough when someone entered the kitchen behind me. I heard their footfalls, their sharp intake of breath, and smelled the thick mixture of sex and sweat coming off their skin. But I didn’t pull away from the stove until I heard the one voice stupid enough to challenge me, and then I pulled back like—well, like I’d been burned, and had been the sort of man to care.

“Motherfuck! Adam! I can smell—upstairs, I mean—” he sputtered, staring horrified at my shining red palm and fingers as I shut off the burner and attempted to stuff the burning, unresponsive fingers into my pocket.

I stared at him, waiting for him to sputter something I could respond to. He was dressed again; boxers and another of Kelley’s t-shirts. His eyes, though now wide and panicky, had returned to their normal brown, lusty gold forgotten but unforgettable. David must have gone as quickly as he’d come.

I snickered at my little joke and Jade look increasingly terrified.

“Adam, what… what were you doing?” he finally stammered, looking stunned.

I smiled lazily, mimicking the look on his face just hours earlier.

“It doesn’t concern the likes of you, Mr.…”

“Puget,” Jade supplied weakly, looking paler by the second. I got immense pleasure out of that fact.

I leaned in close, staring into his eyes, this time unfazed by the slight height difference. “Do you know what I hate most, Puget?” I breathed. “Weakness. So if you came in here to flaunt your flat little ass like it’s something to be proud of, you’re wasting your time. In fact, unless you’re here to start putting some fat on those hideously apparent bones of yours, I’m afraid I’ll have to shove those fabulous piano-playing hands of your back into your empty pockets and send you out the door.”

He looked stunned, inexplicably wounded. “I just—I smelled something burning and I thought it—I thought it was—”

Bored, I stared past him, watching the clock and slowly grating my throbbing burn against the coarse denim of my pocket. He grew even more flustered, finally blurting, “I’ve smelled burning skin before, Adam, and I’ve got the scars to show for it! My—my father—fuck, Adam! I know you think you’re better than sex or something, but I never thought that this shit was what you got off on!”

“Jade,” I said calmly, “I could have killed you, in that alley. I almost killed you in my own kitchen this morning. And since I hired you because I thought you’d make a good whore, not a good advice columnist, I suggest that you get the hell away from me before I become seriously detrimental to your health. Talking is not what your mouth is good for.”

Jade stuck out his chin, defiance growing and seething out of him. “You’re certainly more eloquent than you were earlier— _watching_ me—pretending like you don’t want me—”

I slapped him, hard, across the mouth. When he looked back up at me, his eyes were hard and glittering. The first surge of hate I’d seen in him filled them, giving him a dangerous edge. His voice was sharp and malicious, now; before he’d wanted to hurt me back, but not he just wanted to watch me bleed and take the credit for causing it. I understood.

“You fucking monster! You’re everything they say about you, you know that? I was just trying to be fucking _nice_ to you! I was worried, Adam! Caring about people isn’t such a bad thing—you should try it sometime!”

I might have imagined it, but I think I saw tears sparkle in his hate-filled eyes before he spun away from me and stormed out of the kitchen.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	9. Jade

Hot, angry tears passed my days; fucking strangers occupied my nights. When I had time off, which I didn’t often, I hid in my room and devoured books. I slept little and ate less; I enjoyed the cold, clammy feel my skin took on as it clung ever tighter to my bones, and nothing gave me more joy than waking up hungry and powdering over the dark purple bruises under my eyes. I kept a jar of peanut butter in my room; I only had to leave to use the bathroom and get new books. I kept a spoon and an empty glass and an ashtray; if I got thirsty or needed cigarettes, I crept through the house till I could find them. When I was lonely, it was cocaine that I reached for, and that seemed to do the trick.

The weeks passed quickly. Clothes were left outside my door, growing ever more ill-fitting till nothing would have flattered my new wraith-like figure; my appointments were slipped through the crack and fluttered across my floor like aimless butterflies every time I walked across them.

It was ideal, really, to avoid all contact with the occupants of the house—especially Adam. I didn’t have to be near him to think of him far too often—it took weeks before the thoughts of him began to fade in their intensity.

Maybe I only thought I was avoiding him. Maybe it was he who avoided me. I cared little; that I did not see him was enough.

When I knew—and I often knew, because I was quiet and attentive—that Adam was not in the house, I emerged from my exile. I did not like to pass my time in solitude. I came to enough the other occupants of the house, though they learned little of me. My favorite was the quiet one, pale Emily. She almost always wore thin white silk, clinging to the sickeningly skeletal form of her body. She always looked exhausted, her blue-black hair tangling unkempt back from her proudly tilted chin, her smoky eyes ambiguous and usually unfocused. Sometimes, she would sit with me, and we would talk. She would bring her cassette player and I would share my peanut butter. We both had bank accounts more swollen that we knew what to do with, but were so very dead we had no desire to drain them. I liked her because she lived as feebly and frugally as I did, letting money accumulate and wearing the same socks till holes burst through the bottoms, using cheap shampoo and rusting shaving razors no matter how much better we could afford.

The others did not live so meekly. One of Adam’s girls was in Italy with a client, but I met the other two. One was a dazzling dirty-blond with dread-like snarls of unkempt hair hanging feral over her ferocious eyes. She wore the most fashionable and revealing of clothes and, on occasion, twisted her hair back into a sloppy bun—she did not wear makeup and looked at you like she would just as soon devour you as ask your name. She ate exactly what she wanted, drank too much, and chain-smoked; she swore like a construction worker, had an aggressive accent that muted her Ts and dropped her Gs, and struggled to hide her meth habits from Adam. Her eyes, too dark and dilated to ever have a color, were perpetually red; a single glance from them would keep her secret in you for your lifetime. Her name was Clare, and I was the only one who seemed to think it was far too feminine and refined to suit her.

The other was a brunette with shining hair so plain and lovely she might have been a librarian. She dressed conservatively, called herself Mariette, and did not speak very often. She was not glamorous or dangerous or sad; she had a wholesome appeal that set her apart from Emily and Clare. Something about how nice she looked made clients want to do awful things to her; she had more horror stories than the rest of the girls combined. Of course, I hadn’t met Natalia, but she didn’t sound like the sort of girl who wore expensive pumps and above-the-knee stockings, so I didn’t imagine she’d seen anything so terrible as Mariette had.

The other was Damien. Damien was shy, keeping to himself even more than I did. He had pale blond hair and dark skin; Ehren told me that his father had been Cherokee, his mother Hawaiian. I didn’t understand how someone so quiet and scarce could survive in this world of smeared eyeliner and neon lights, but he upheld a large clientele and had a ruthless schedule. In the time I’d been in the house, we had only spoken twice, and one of the times was only because he had answered the phone before Emily got to it.

All of my days blurred together, some painful and some boring. Every Friday, I received a sum well over a thousand dollars, and every week it got bigger—but I found that money, once such a crucial thing, meant nothing to me anymore. I grew ever more adjusted to my new life; nothing notable happened until one typical grey Tuesday. And then everything started happening at once.  
I woke early that day, as I always did. I had thrilling plans to sulk in my room and read Ayn Rand all day, and at noon Emily and I intended to get good and drunk on a flask of aged brandy she’d stolen from a particularly noxious client. I’d also picked up an eight-ball of cocaine a few days back, purchased with exactly the kind of cash tip Adam had sworn I wouldn’t receive; I hoped she’d share it with me. I couldn’t bear to feel much longer, but I wasn’t willing to snort nightmares off my reflection by myself.

With so much to look forward to, I showered quickly; ignoring the urge, sponsored by a vivid and inexplicable image of Adam, to satisfy myself. When I trudged back into my room, blissfully numb, I found someone perched upon my bed that wasn’t Emily.

At first, I didn’t recognize the grinning blond boy. I only held my towel more firmly around my waist and locked the door behind me.

The boy sprung to his feet, grabbing a bouquet of daisies of the bedspread next to him. It was only when he bounded forward, clutching his daisies like a life vest and reminiscent of a puppy, that I recognized him.

It was Davey, little Davey Marchand. But there was something different about him—he was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, for one thing; no more suits. It was also his smile, the relaxed air about him—he was happy. Eager, but not so nervous this time. His father had been right, my newly cynical side quipped. He _had_ needed to get laid.

“I came here to thank you,” Davey said exuberantly, reminding me again of an oversized puppy and thrusting the daisies into my chest.

I stepped back, not taking them. It had been only a little over a month, but I was a grossly different person from the young, enthusiastic whore Davey had fucked. I was colder, more impatient—all the way to my core, I was sadistic and bitter and miserable.

I hated him for showing me how quickly the change had come.

“Thank me? You certainly don’t have to do that,” I said, the cruel edge that had so quickly become habit ruthless in my voice. I wasn’t really incredulous or surprised by his naiveté as I was disinterested—the only people who had been nice to me the last few weeks had done it expecting something in return. I simply wasn’t going to fall for the sweet and innocent act—not when it always seemed to go hand-in-hand with the ‘don’t I get free sex?’ thing. I was a whore, not a slut, and the glamour—and distinction—was wearing thin, fast.

Davey looked confused. “I brought you flowers,” he said uncertainly. “I wanted to spend the day with you.”

I snickered. I couldn’t help it. “Look, Davey, if you want to fuck me, you’re going to have to set that up with Mr. Carson, and he doesn’t like daisies.”

Davey frowned, now, brow creased. His spoke slowly, as if thinking very hard. “You said we could be friends, remember?”

“I was doing my job, Davey. Part of it is saying what the client wants to hear, and part of it is fucking. And the most important part of it,” I pressed on, voice growing louder so I could be heard over his sputtering protests, “is being very damn good at both.”

Davey’s brow furrowed deeper, dark eyes growing murky. “I remember. You said we could be friends,” he repeated dully, sounding… empty, almost. Flowers falling limp and hopeless, as good as dead, to his side. “I don’t—I don’t have any friends, Jade. I haven’t ever had a friend. I thought… you said that… you and I, that we could be…”

I hadn’t realized I was still human. Not until Davey turned his hollow gaze on me, eyes enormous and pleading and sad, not understanding. I’d felt something growing in me, something hard and cold and unfeeling, and I hadn’t known until this moment that it hadn’t permeated every last corner of me, that there was still hope that someday I would feel again.

For the first time in weeks—since that night, that first night with Adam and the burner—my stomach settled. My head got clearer, and I felt warm. Like I might be able to eat, like I might be able to sleep—like I might, for an hour or so, be able to ignore my thoughts. Like the cold was ending. And even if winter came again—well, what did winter matter, anyway, if spring was going to follow?

I let a smile, a genuine smile, break out across my face. Not pity for sad, friendless Davey—but delirious joy for myself, for his weakness that allowed me to feel, filled me.

“Okay, Davey,” I laughed, and he looked startled, smiling tentatively, cautious of my next mood swing. “We can be friends.”

“I’m—I’m glad,” Davey said uneasily, still suspicious of my sudden kindness. “I’ve never had one before. I—um—Jade?” he asked abruptly, an inexplicable blush burning across his face.

“Hmm?”

He held out the flowers, nervous again. “I still want you to have these. It’s okay if you said mean things, I know you don’t mean them. And, um,” he blushed ever harder as I took the flowers, “I quit. My, um, my job. My dad—he was furious. His golfing friend was my boss. He wouldn’t have hired me if they weren’t, you know, friends—if he wasn’t a little bit scared of my dad. But I told him, Jade—I told him I’m going to be a singer.”

Davey’s voice had been taken over by a tone of pride, somehow still desperate for approval, horribly unsure of himself.

“Davey, that’s great!” I gushed, more enthusiasm in my voice than was natural, most of it spurred by pity.

Davey nodded, looking pleased and relieved. “I even—I even joined the choir at this one church. I never sang before that night. That—um, that was why I wanted to thank you. Not the, um, other thing.”

I laughed again and he looked alarmed at first. Then he smiled shyly, realizing slowly that it wasn’t him I was laughing at. “You know what, Dave?” I decided suddenly, warmed by affection and unbelievably alive. “Let me buy breakfast. After all—” and I smiled now, knowing my implications would make him blush—“you bought last time.”

Breakfast with naïve Davey was beyond refreshing. In retrospect, I’m sure you could call it life-saving—because if he hadn’t spent that morning thawing my heart, the events immediately following our parting might have stopped it entirely.

No sooner had I waved goodbye to Davey and closed the reinforced door behind me than I saw something I was completely unprepared for: Adam.

I steeled myself, held my head high, and tried to walk past him, up the stairs. But his voice stopped me cold.

“Jade.” My name was all it took, and my knees went weak. I sank to the stairs heavily, sitting awkwardly on the step below the one he stood on. I was dizzy, I realized as I gaped up at him.

Concern flecked his eyes, but only for a moment. “Jade? Are you—?”

And then his words were gone, the whole world white, and the next thing I knew I was opening my eyes on the same chaise lounge Davey—and quite a few others to date—had fucked me on.

Adam was standing above me, and from my side came the cold, lovely voice of Kelley. The two very last people I ever wanted to see again.

“Jade, you just passed out,” Kelley said, sounding nastily amused, “on the stairs. One look at Mr. Carson here and you were out cold.”

Adam silenced him with a scalding look, and held up a bandaged hand. “That’s enough, Kelley.”

I scowled up at the pair of them. “What do you want from me?” I asked defensively. I did not want them, of all people, thinking I was weak. I wouldn’t allow it. “Well, I mean, obviously _Kelley_ wants sex, but—”

Adam turned his glare on me and my words died in my throat.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said sternly, “that you were going to be with Mr. Burgan tonight. You remember him?”  
I’m sure that all the color in my face drained away, and I swallowed harder than I meant to, a reaction it was hard to disguise. Kelley snickered but Adam only smirked.

“I thought Kelley could tell you what to—ah—expect from Mr. Burgan,” Adam explained.

I immediately swelled with pride, the stupidest as all emotions. “You think I need help? Is that what you’re saying?” I snapped, catty as all hell. “It would do to remember that _you_ picked _me_ , A—” I swallowed the name just in time. “You picked me!”

“Jade,” Adam said patiently, alarm at my near-slip undetectable, “Burgan’s a difficult customer. You remember the man, don’t you? I denied him as many times as I could, so you could get some practice in—and I’d feel more comfortable if you were prepared and knew in advance what you’d be dealing with.”

I sneered, so ugly a gesture that even Kelley wrinkled his perfect nose. “You think I’ve never been treated bad before? You think no big, mean, ugly fuck has had his way with me before?” I demanded, voice growing ever nastier. “I didn’t come to you a virgin, Carson, and I wasn’t inexperienced either. If there was any part of my sex life that had been pleasant, do you think I would have chosen this? It’s only a paycheck to me, okay? I can fucking handle it!”

I couldn’t help it. I was screaming indignation and injustice, and I was thinking of him. Of my father. Fucked and bleeding, that’s how I’d grown up. They didn’t need to teach me about the unpleasant part of my job. If I hadn’t known I life so brutal I’d been entirely desensitized and broken, I wouldn’t be hiding here. at least here I was getting paid for what happened anyway at home.

“You don’t know what he’s like,” Kelley said warningly. “What he’s capable of. I’ve never known anyone so cruel, Jade, and there are some fucking sickos out there.”

I stared hard into Kelley’s breath-taking eyes, feeling like a child throwing a tantrum, and got to my feet. Finally, when he’d grown considerably uncomfortable under my gaze and height, I said quietly, meaningfully, “I know it.”

Flames crawled up Kelley’s cheeks and Adam looked shocked that I’d managed that kind of reaction. I could see him trying hard to grasp an event he didn’t know.

“You’ve changed, Puget,” Kelley said as I swung my ass out of the room. “You’re cold, you know that? Your warmth—that was what I liked about you. That’s what I wanted you in the first place. But now you’re just—you’re just cold.”  
“It must be kind of like looking in a mirror, then,” I shot back. “A younger, more talented _mirror_.”

Preoccupied with the victory of the shock on Kelley’s stunning face, I didn’t take his words to heart. I was determined to prove them wrong, to stun them with my expertise—stupid. Pride was such a stupid thing.

This time, it almost got me killed.

At least—that’s what it felt like.

A few hours later, Burgan sent a car to pick me up and a butler let me in and took me through the magnificent house, leading me through hallways and down staircases until we were in a hard-to-reach room somewhere deep in the bowels of the mansion. Everything in the room was made of a sleek, black metal, and there was a long, black table in the middle of the room. A frightening array of ambiguously painful-looking devices hung from the flat black concrete of the wall, suspended by a series of deadly, gleaming hooks. There was a drain in the floor and small ventilation ducts high in the walls, and I shuddered. It reminded me of—but that was ridiculous. Why would a man like Burgan have a gas chamber in his home?

The butler excused himself from the room, leaving me there, and closed the door behind him. The door, as well as the wall it was set in, was glass, offering vantage to the slate-grey, poorly lit hallway beyond. A man with yellow almond-shaped eyes stood there, leaning against the concrete with a twist upon his lips that might have been a smile or a sneer, and the hunger of his eyes made me shiver. I turned away, studying the instruments instead. They, too, did little to appease my sudden apprehension, and I grew cold. They were all, somehow, inexplicably ominous—though there were none that were weapons or gags, they all had some kind of fearsome look to them, things I’d never seen before—the type of tools that did not seem relatable to sex.

But why else would I be in this room? It must be specifically designed for Burgan’s sexual endeavors, viewing platform and all. The chilling thought then was what the instruments were intended for.

And then, though I had not heard the door open, from behind me came the most frightening voice I’d ever heard.

It was Burgan’s.

He wasn’t supposed to hurt us. For the next four hours of agony, that’s all I could think. That he wasn’t supposed to hurt us.

He removed my clothes and handcuffed me first—ordinary enough, serving even to relax me, as many clients enjoyed the pretense of rough and kinky sex without actually partaking. But what he did next was to step away from me. I was uncertain, not knowing if he intended me to follow. He hadn’t touched me. I didn’t understand. He busied himself selecting gleaming tools from the wall and laying them out on the table. I was freezing.

“Surely you don’t intend for me to stand here all day,” I interrupted his work, trying to keep the uncertainty out of my tone and failing brilliantly.

He gave me an annoyed glance.

I checked back over my shoulder. Yellow-eyes was still watching. He was too round about the middle to be a bodyguard, and anyone involved in Burgan’s career wouldn’t be privy to an act like this—and I was startled to see that he was no longer alone. Another man had joined him, and a woman in a pencil skirt and tasteful white blouse. The woman and the second man were murmuring to each other, eyes riveted.

“So do you charge admission, or do they get what you’re paying for for free?” I asked, trying a different approach.

“They are my friends,” Burgan said demurely, choosing his words carefully but with great disinterest. “They are in positions to benefit me, if I treat them well. The demonstration I’m going to perform is booked months in advance.”

‘Apprehensive’ suddenly ceased being enough of a word to encompass the feeling tense in my gut. “Are you really so powerful that people pay to watch you fuck?” I asked, tone tinged with malice as I found myself hating him.

“Don’t be vulgar,” he said, a look on his face like I’d said something distasteful. I stepped closer to him, where he was adjusting the instruments on the table so they all faced the same direction. When he refused to look up at me, I dragged my hand across part of the neat line, skewing the pieces. He looked up at me, eyebrows arced and mouth drawn into a tight line.

“Jade, I will ask you only once not to be difficult,” he said through gritted teeth, voice low and full of carefully contained rage, quick hands undoing what I had done. “I swear to you that you will regret it.”

“You bought me for sex and sex only,” I warned him, panic mercifully free from my tone. “You aren’t allowed to—”

Burgan suddenly turned away from the table, clearly vexed, and pinched the nerve running through my shoulder between his thumb and index finger, a slight twist bringing me to my knees gasping at the pain. “On your knees, where you belong,” he observed, voice light and cruel. “How fitting. Need I remind you that I am the owner of this house and the next few hours of your life, that you are handcuffed and weak and I command a full arsenal of personal who are only a few corridors away? No, Jade, you aren’t allowed to make the rules anymore. I paid well for this, and you will not get in the way. Now stand up!”

His voice remained flat and cold until the very last sentence, an order that was barked while the veins in his neck bulged. Impossible to argue with. I stood.

Hunter selected a blunt black metal rod and turned me away from him, so that I was facing the suddenly frightening eyes of the spectators. Two more had joined them, one a tanned, athletic man, the other a businessman I recognized from the cover of Forbes. “The real world leaders,” he breathed into my ear.

I expected—well. Not what came next, certainly.

At first he was merely tapping, probing seemingly random points on my back, legs, arm, and shoulders. It was vaguely uncomfortable, but nothing worth writing home about. I had the audacity to think that Kelley was weak, Adam paranoid—this was nothing like what they had lead me to expect. He was strange, maybe, but not the fearsome monster they made him out to be.

And then he moved around to my front. With the deft precision of a practiced sadist, glee plain upon his face, he continued to target seemingly random points of my anatomy. But I knew better—I was beginning to recognize them. They were all along the lines of my veins and tendons and nerves; pressure points, nerve clusters, major arteries. It didn’t take long for me to catch on that, the moment he started to press harder, I would be in a great deal of pain.

Well, I was never one for prolonging the inevitable. I got it into my head that, the sooner he started to hurt me, the sooner he’d stop. That had always been the way with my father, at least—I didn’t see how it could be any different with Burgan. If I just got him so angry he’d forget about his sadomasochistic foreplay and fuck me, he’d be done. Men like him always were.

“Tenderizing me?” I asked dryly, hoping mere sarcasm would be enough to inflame him. I was too tired and stared at and horribly raw to muster the energy I knew would be necessary if I was going to do this right instead of just making it worse for myself.

He looked into my eyes and licked his lips, pushing his stick slow and hard into a point just below my elbow, a point even I knew from an assailant-defense class I’d taken once. I’d never been able to hit it; Burgan got it what I must assume was dead on.

The next thing I knew, I was screaming.

A wicked grin spread across his face. “You were much too pretty to fuck. I knew that from the second I saw you.”

“Asshole,” I hissed, breaking the first of Adam’s rules. “You’re deranged, you know that? The ones who have to pay to get fucked are bad enough, but how much respect can you have for a man who can’t even get it—”

He jabbed and twisted into my solar plexus, a horrible angle and with such intensity I thought I might throw up. Instead I fell to my knees, gasping, and hating the weakness I knew gave him such pleasure. If only it didn’t hurt me—it would be over, if he couldn’t hurt me. If only I were strong, stoic, emotionless—if only I were Adam.

The thought of Adam somehow gave me strength, fury at the horrible injustice of my whole life being this, the good moments rank with anticipation of the next stab of fate’s awful stick. Being able to detest Burgan somehow made it more bearable. The immovable lines of Adam’s unforgiving face somehow made it better.

He stalked in a circle around me, digging his stick under the muscle of my shoulder blade. I did not scream. I thought of Adam and muffled it the best I could, emitting instead a tortured groan. Smug smile on his lips, he stopped once he’d come full circle, and pulled my head forward till my cheek was pressed none-too-gently into the rough fabric of his pants.

“Feel that?” he hissed.

“There’s nothing to feel!” I spat.

“Exactly. _I don’t want you_ ,” he said darkly, right into my ear.

I laughed, somehow, Adam’s eyes still burning through the haze in my head, even as he drove his stick again into my flesh. “Then there’s more wrong with you than I thought,” I choked, bravado only just struggling to the surface of my pain. “ _Everybody_ wants me, Burgan.” I threw all my weight into the thrust of my neck, using my cheekbone to crush everything he held dear, which he’d left so stupidly exposed to me.

He expelled only the slightest shriek of pain and anger, and I felt the spasm in his body as he restrained himself from driving his foot into my gut. Instead of the reaction I’d wanted, the one I’d counted on, he only grew more businesslike.

“The pop you’re about to feel,” Burgan said calmly, “is one of your lumbar vertebrae dislocating.”

To call the sudden, horrible grinding that shuddered through my entire spine, burning everything it touched, a ‘pop’ was to call what happened to the Titanic a ‘bump’.

It was not a pop. It was not even a crackle or a snap.

It was a fucking avalanche.

When I ran out of air—and I did not know until later that it had been Adam's name that I had yelled—I stopped screaming. My voice was weak, shaking, hoarse—but I was determined. I wouldn’t let him win, no matter what he did to me. No matter what happened, even if it killed me, Hunter Burgan was going to fuck me.

“So are you just going to keep me here forever?” I asked, pretending that tears of agony and shame weren’t streaming down my face. “Torture me till I die?”

“Of course not,” he said, sounding reproachful. “I’ll keep you the hours I paid for and send you home. To keep you here would be impractical.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “If I were to kill you, I doubt Mr. Carson would let me buy from him again.”

“Real buzzkill, isn’t he?” I asked, dripping with sarcasm.  
Burgan’s response was a sharp smack upside my head. The way my neck lashed sent more pain than I had believed could exist racing up and down whatever was left of my spine. That was the first sign of weakness he’d shown, and he visibly admonished himself for it, hectic little tugs of his head from side to side and the first trace of annoyance on his face.

Spurred on by this small victory, I struck again. “Do you fuck the others?” My voice was a gasp, a direct response to the small rubber cone he’d taken and was digging into the most vulnerable point of my neck, just before it met the shoulder, splitting tendon and muscle right down the middle. “Or can’t you get it up with them, either?” He dug it in harder, something I hadn’t thought was possible, and if I’d been physically able, I’d have smirked. I’d hit a nerve.

So had he. He pressed down until I was writhing, bent so far forward my hair brushed the concrete, and then let up. Before I had time to gasp my relief, he had found the same tender point on the other shoulder, and almost all of my thoughts were consumed with the mordant pain of it.

“I bet that’s it,” I went on pleasantly, as if the bridge of my nose wasn’t grinding into the floor so hard I could only wait for the wet snap of cartilage and bone, as if my head wasn’t screaming anguish so loudly I couldn’t hear my own words. “You can’t get it up, so you’ve got to torture people to feel like a man. And of course it’s whores you’d choose—the embodiment of sex, the one thing money could never buy you, the one insufficiency Daddy’s bank account couldn’t make up for.”

“He’s just a _whore_ ,” he hissed, so low and under his breath I had to strain to make it out, no doubt trying to calm himself down. He circled back in front of me, too quickly, and I knew I was getting closer. Even as he took a longer cone and forced it between my ribs, I knew it—I was winning. And if I was winning, then the suffering it took to reach that victory could not possibly be that bad. If it was as unbearable as it felt, then I would not be making progress—if it was unbearable, I would not be able to bear it.

I kept talking. I had to—the moment I stopped fighting, the moment I stopped winning, I would die. And that would be a relief, death—except that I would never drown in Adam’s deep blue eyes again, if I died. I’d never feel his rough fingers brush my lips, and whether I’d admit it or not, that was the one thing I could not shake from my head no matter who was fucking me. I also allowed myself to think of Davey and his flowers, his blush and his nervous laugh, the scarlet he’d gone up in after spilling his orange juice, the crumpled hundred dollar bill he thought he’d been clever about leaving on the table.

It was hard to say what, exactly, gave me strength. Maybe it was the thought of Davey, or Adam, or the brief flickering picture of my little brothers engaged in a Nintendo battle to the death, all things I could barely remember—but I did not have the energy to question the strength. I merely let it take me as far as it could.

“You know, my dad was a lot like that,” I went on when he hadn’t answered or done anything worse than rupture my kidney with the flex of his thumb. “Except—oh yeah—now that I think about it, he _could_ get it up. Pretty often, too—I mean, my mom wasn’t even enough for the guy, and she was a stripper—a hot one—he wanted a go at me, too, whenever she wasn’t in the house. Probably wouldn’t have said no to my little brother, either, some nights, when me and his own hands combined were too sore to be of any use and he still hadn’t got it out of his system.”

What I was saying was true, and my own words made my skin crawl. But they hit their mark—Hunter spun away from me, face red as he finally broke, screaming, “SHUT UP!”

And then he slammed me to the concrete, my face ground against the black concrete, spectators and all, and he was still screaming it as he tore my pants down. It took him forty-five minutes to give up, my face scraped and bloody, my nose gushing all it had down my shining chin, my palms torn up and all exposed skin worn raw—and he still couldn’t fuck me. His dick was lifeless, small and limp and useless.

But what he did to me for the remaining hour and a half? By the time he was done, it didn’t matter to me anymore that I’d won, that I’d lived, that he was going to let me go after all—nothing mattered anymore. After the torture and anguish I’d been through, the trenchant hurts that marred my body but didn’t dare mark my flesh, after what he’d done to me and lived—sentences were beyond my grasp, let alone victory. I was too far gone to consider suicide, but had I had the thought to acknowledge it, there was nothing I wanted more than death.

When I was finally carried out of the house—because I could not walk—and dragged cruelly to the car—not that I could feel it—my head was lolling and my thoughts were even further from control or recognition. I did not know words, did not understand feelings. Not even the fear or the smell of my own blood and urine reached me. I did not feel time pass, did not feel movement, cannot recall the car, but the next thing I remember I was shoved out of the car. I thought I’d die, there on the sidewalk, a few impossible feet from what I could no longer recognize of my salvation—in fact I do not doubt that that would be have been my last moment, my final resting place, my blood and defeat intermingled on the sidewalk—but I never hit the ground.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	10. Adam

This was exactly the reason I’d been so diligently avoiding him.

He collapsed in my arms, eyes barely open, face red and splotched with tears and pain.

I didn’t know where to take him, but I knew there was only one place where no one would bother him, bother us.

That was all I was concerned with, and in less than five minutes, Jade was laying in my bed.

“What did he do to you?” I asked calmly, trying to keep my voice level. I’d kill the bastard, rip him limb from limp if I thought for a second it was Burgan who had made him bleed.

But somehow it was a smile that spread across his cracked lips. “He couldn’t fuck me,” he whispered, throat hoarse—probably, I realized with a sickening jolt, from screaming.

“Did he hurt you, Jade?”

He frowned for a moment. “Yes,” he said slowly, as if recalling things I could not comprehend. “But I won, Adam. No matter what… _else_ he did, he couldn’t fuck me.”

He shifted slightly, and let out a soft mew of pain. A pang of something nameless filled me, and when he cried out my name I forgot every defense I’d ever had. I knelt at his side, wrapped my arms around him, took in his scent greedily, and I lost myself, holding Jade.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to feel what I had lost. I was the boy whose name Jade called—you and lost in the twisting alleys of this choked city, seeking solace in the arms of what I truly believed was love. And I let myself feel the horrible burning loss, for those few moments drown in it—and when I laid my head on Jade’s chest, I was still Adam, but I was grown. Changed. There was no such thing as love—I knew that now. But there did exist Jade’s soft skin, his smell, his swollen lip and bruise-dark eyes—and for that moment, that was enough. That was all in the world that I needed.

It wasn’t until his fingers brushed my cheek that I looked up into his eyes. The hope he must have seen radiating from me must have terrified him, but he didn’t show it. He looked back into my eyes, as devoid of hope as mine were full, and he whimpered, just a little. “I want a bath,” he begged, so week it both drew me in and repulsed me. “I always used to—”

I nodded, letting him know he didn’t have to say it, and slid him off the bed. I stood slowly, letting him cling to my chest, curving one hand around his bony back and the other twining under his knees, and carried him into my bathroom, careful not to jostle him.

I laid him tenderly into the tub, smoothing his hair off his sweating forehead. “Do you want the water hot or cold?”

Jade ignored the question. “My back,’” he whimpered. “He hurt a bone in my back.”

Bracing myself, I peeled his t-shirt away from his body, pulling it over his head almost lovingly. The vertebrae jutted cruelly, straining green as bruises against the white skin, and I realized he still hadn’t been eating enough. Before I could ask, though, an oddly twisted vertebra caught my eyes, brackish bruise spreading from it.

“It looks like—there’s something wrong with one of the lumbar vertebrae,” I said haltingly, touching it lightly.

A look of pain so severe it bordered on ecstasy flickered across Jade’s face and I was almost jealous. I knew pain like that, learned from it, could not be without it—and it was not fair that it was _wasted_ on the likes of him.

“He said it would be dislocated,” Jade said, his voice coming from far away.

“He—he told you that?” I sputtered, familiar anger taking hold of me. “He did this to you deliberately?”

Jade’s lips cracked into a painful smile. “Of course he did,” he said weakly.

As gently as possible—but still causing more pain than I was entirely comfortable with—I forced Jades’ vertebra up and in, where it snapped awfully back into place. Jade let out a little moan, unaware that if I had gone too quickly or too forcefully it would have killed him, and rolled towards me.

“Water, Adam,” he begged thickly. “I need the water.”

I turned on the faucet as Jade fumbled with the drain, and he seemed to like it cold, so I didn’t change it. He also hardly noticed his pants and shoes slowly becoming soaked; instead he closed his thin blue-tinted eyelids, looking blissful.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel anything good again.”

His hand, now wet and cold, slipped out of the tub and snaked into mine, and I stiffened at the touch. Forbidden—it was forbidden. My entire body screaming in protest, knowing that it was wrong—and then he rubbed an icy thumb along the back of my hand, and it was hopeless. I was powerless to stop him—and even as I watched his bare chest rise and fall, in and out of the rising water, his weary eyes flickered open, dark brown shining with a precious few flecks of gold.

I held his fingers tightly and we sat in peace for a time, simply being together. I would have been content to stay there with him forever—but once Jade started shivering, the moment ended. I wrapped him in a towel and the comforter off my bed and carried him into his room.

I knew that when he woke up the next morning, he would expect things to be this way. He didn’t know that, if I were to survive, if my empire were to do anything but perish, things could never be this way. The solace I found in him, the safety he sought in me—these were small things, unimportant. Feelings did not matter—business did.

When I settled him onto his own bed, he had already fallen fast asleep. And so I found no guilt in brushing my lips across his forehead—but the weakness in the gesture was so complete that I took no pleasure from it either.

Back in my own room, I allowed for just one moment tears to sting at my eyes; but I did not let myself cry. Even had I tried, I doubt I would have been able—it had been years, since I last cried. It wouldn’t surprise me if I had forgotten how.

The one moment of human emotion, however, had to be paid for. I kept a small box of weakness, just for that purpose—a small wooden box, smaller than my wallet, grafted with a few silver bands. In it, I kept two worn straight razors; a tiny glass vial of heroin, my old addiction; a handful of Xanax; a thick surgical needle; two capsules of cocaine; a small square mirror; a syringe; a business card; and a faded snapshot, face down.  
Hating myself for every weak, pathetic second, I freed a thin X-acto from the box and drew a few furious lines into my bicep. I didn’t allow myself to watch the blood swell and bead and pool down m arm; I knew I’d take an unforgivable amount of pleasure from it. Instead, I busied myself putting the blade neatly back into place.

And then I slowly withdrew perhaps the worst item the box contained—a small black business card with a street address scrawled carelessly along the bottom in small, white print.

It was the address of a highly exclusive club, the kind that you always assumed was only an urban legend until you’d been there—and most people would never be there. It was called Metallurgy and it was where predators went to stalk their prey. It was for the rich, the prominent, the powerful, and the stunningly beautiful—only the most distinguished or most desirable were there, looking for sex without the pretenses. It was not quite a sex club—but it still seemed wrong to me, still seemed low and disgusting, and I had never been. It was too much of a browsing gallery, however elite, and ever since they’d filtered through the underground a few years back, the owners had been clamoring for my patronage.

It was less than fifty blocks, so I walked, a little too quickly for a man of my stature on a night as clear and busy as this one. But my heart was pounding in my ears; it wasn’t fear, but hatred that hastened my step. Going to such a place was despicable, but I didn’t have the patience for hunting in a more legal club. I needed someone slim, wide-eyed and pleasing, and I needed them now—because if I went home like this, so very weak and self-loathing, the very sight or scent of Jade would push me over every edge I’d ever established.

When I found the place, buried in a mostly dormant warehouse district, I wasn’t surprised. 1570 was a nondescript grey door, marked only with its number in small black stencil. The door was unlocked, the rusting brass knob yielding at my touch. The door opened into a yawning black staircase, straight down into total darkness, and my palms started tingling. I didn’t like this. It was wrong.

I backed away from the door, let it swing shut, and paced up and down the street. Each time I was level with the door, I hesitated, till I finally gave in and opened it again. This time I plunged down the stairs, stumbling blindly as the door swung shut, enclosing me in the narrow pitch black stairway with nowhere to go but down.  
The door had no handle on the inside, and I wasn’t surprised.

Darkness and silence encompassed me completely, my sense screaming and pupils dilating—every predator’s instinct was revolting, shrieking that I’d walked into a trap. When the stairs ended, I was pressed up against a cold metal wall. I felt no hinges or handles; but blind groping finally revealed a small, cold button the same smooth surface of the rest of the panel, ever-so-slightly raised.

Instead of feeling humiliated, which was doubtlessly the intent of the designer, the panic in my gut ebbed. These must be ruthless men, clever and cruel in ways they could never be punished for.

My kind of people.

I pressed the button with my thumb and the entire panel slid away. The hallway I was in flooded with the dim, throbbing lights of the club’s interior; the deafening music followed, and I stepped into the club grinning. I was sure they’d been watching me, and equally sure that they were disappointed by my manners. I was not frightened, I was not confused; I merely was. Had I been the one to design the forbidding tunnel of darkness, I knew that an implacable man like myself would infuriate me.

The man waiting just outside the door I’d come through, standing next to a wall of television monitors that provided a night-vision perspective of the hall, looked at me with a vague kind of respect and nodded his head. “Mr. Carson,” he rumbled, a formidable looking Pollack. “We had all but given up the pleasure.”

“If it’s a pleasure to be repeated, you will kindly strike my name from all but your most private records,” I greeted him coldly, not believing for a second that he wasn’t the club’s owner, knowing that this was the only sort of man who would ever understand me. “If anyone learns of my attendance at your establishment…”

The threat went unuttered. “Don’t worry, Mr. Carson. I neither underestimate the length of your arm nor keep a record of attendance, excluding my own memory. If anyone were to inquire, I would only insist that no Mr. Carson had been in contact with or purchased metal from us in the traceable past.”

“Is that what you claim to be? A scientific engineering firm?” I asked, eyebrows raised in genuine business interest. Finally, I had met someone to be considered my equal, a man of the same undiscerning cleverness, the kind of businessman to be reckoned with, ethics as firm but ruthlessly convoluted as my own.

The man offered me a sardonic smile, acknowledging the same thing. “We had to put something on the lease, didn’t we?”

I nodded my head, appeased. My own lease claimed that mine were an establishment of marketing and analysis reps, something ridiculously far from the truth.

Luckily, I thought to myself as I nodded my respect to the man and stepped into the throbbing atrium of the club, the truth had never been of much importance to me.

I let my eyes rove the club’s interior as greedily as I liked, taking in long, smooth limbs, lithe young bodies, burning eyes—some with the aggressively enticing stance of a predator and others with the timid, submissive gaze of carefully presented prey. If anything, those who appeared so shy and naïve were more experienced than those who hunted. They knew exactly how to attract the kind of sex they were after, and I had a great deal of respect for those. No pretenses, here—just by looking at them, you could tell what every one of them wanted. Down to their most secret, twisted fantasy, I could read everything in the way they tipped their head back, the calculated amount of allure in their eyes, how snug their pants were, the way they shifted their weight as they walked, how open their eyes were, how much their lips parted, what earrings they’d chosen. Perhaps that was my warning that I’d been selling sex for too long—but it was a skill I was proud of. Nothing was more tragic than a successful man who did not enjoy his work.

As I walked, I chuckled to myself. Here, you would never know if who you fucked had been invited because they were rich, successful, a big-name tycoon, or purely because of their beauty. It was so shallow and anonymous and absolutely perfect.

It wasn’t until my third circuit of the modern grunge bar that I noticed an unusual selectiveness in my manner. It took me a while, but the more approaches I turned down, the more clear the pattern became to me. Hair too long or too short, too dark or too light, I passed up. Lips thin, nose angular, subtle cheekbones, shallow eyes—I walked past. Anyone curvy or broad, voluptuous or solid looking, any notable figure, I did not give a second glance. I realized eventually that what I was looking for—tall, obviously thin, fragile, slim fingers. Swollen lips, graceful collarbone, crooked smile and glittering eyes. A playfully seductive nature, fiery and deliberate appeal—jutting hips that swung just so, a boyish face, slight curls than leaned toward russet—bony, freckled arms, unnatural grace, a devious smirk and the sort of laugh that made your knees go weak.

Like I said—selective.

It took over an hour, but eventually I realized what I was doing.

I was looking for him.

For the last several years, the unspecified pronoun ‘him’ had meant one man in particular, the man the boy Adam had fallen in love with all those endless nights ago. If I let myself remember, I could still taste the nighttime air, fierce and curious. The sweet, dry taste of summer, the way the air sparked with electricity just before the white-hot tongues of the Santa Ana winds swept through the city, and the fantastic burning that coursed through your veins, more potent than any drug I knew of, and galvanized every inch of you to do something dark and glamorous and terrible. If I let myself—yes, I remembered. His quick, cold hands, his smoldering eyes, the granite lines of his profile—his ink-black curls, his concave stomach, his smooth flat chest. And his smell—God, his smell.

For one weak moment, I let myself think his name. Lars—his name had been Lars.

And then all thoughts of him were gone. The things we’d done, the nights spent in dark alleys selling ourselves, the drugs he’d dealt, the blissfully violent sex—the bruises, the fighting, the endless screaming, the lies. We’d both lied through our teeth, jealous abusive addicts—each struggling to play the sadist. Finally, the overdose, the rehab, the relief—and the ache. The terrible loss. When he came calling, months later—well, as far as he could tell, the boy he’d pretended so hard to love was dead, gone without a trace.

Much the same way, gone quicker than a sunset in our sallow layers of smog, _he_ was gone. The inexorable exorcised. The unforgettable forgotten.

It was not now a young, pale substitute for Lars I sought—now, somehow, the ‘him’ I searched for was Jade.

I had let myself remember, even invoked the name—far more dangerous than listening to the radio or my own piano playing could ever be and yet I’d denied myself that ever since, cringing from the potential ruthless memories music could bring.

Could it really be so _easy_?

I didn’t for a second believe it. God simply didn’t like me that much.

Jade was a curse, no matter how cleverly disguised. After all, he used my name, touched my skin. Evoked the most pathetic of human reactions. It wasn’t only my subconscious he was conquering. He’d be the end of me, if I wasn’t careful.

Even this knowledge did not stop me. An insatiable yearning for his supple body, his glazed gold eyes, his pointed white teeth—all of it consumed me. Gnawing, aching impossible need for his alabaster skin ate away at me, starvation so thorough not even I could deny it.

But just because I was admitting it didn’t mean I couldn’t change it or do my very best to stop it.

What I realized next was that losing the effigy of Lars was also a battle lost—a battle against Jade, against weakness.

Suddenly furious, it was a sultry twig called Sierra I brought home, and I fucked her hard—against a wall and again in the shower, so hard she left long, bleeding gashes down my back, he own thighs puffed with red claw marks from our third venture, one that found me flat on my back with her above me. Her slim hips and small breasts were pale as they should be, her russet hair freed from its ponytail and falling to her chin in gentle waves, her eyes wide and dilated, sharp cheekbones flushed. Her lips were beaded with blood where I’d bitten them, and as we laid panting side-by-side she was exquisitely beautiful, so much that it was hard for me to bear.

I buried my face in her chest, holding her soft slim hips tight in my palms, and let shuddering, gasping breaths claw their way out of my chest. She was so fragile, so porcelain, so lovely—I couldn’t stand it. I felt as if I could not breathe—she was far too perfect.

And there, with my eyes closed tight, quaking terrified in the face of beauty, it was not the girl I cried for—it was him. Jade. His skin white and fresh as the virgin snow, the smooth glow that slipped like liquid beneath my fingers. a bruised and trampled flower, immaculate in its despair—and tears fell, my first in years, fast and hard down my cheeks. I felt as though I was staring infinity in the eye, and I couldn’t stand it.

The girl said nothing, wordlessly stroking my coarse hair, and it was a long time we laid like that. When I finally sat up, she smiled sadly at me and pulled on her clothes. I offered her a business card that bore my address, asking her to come again. She took the card, still smiling, and we both knew I’d never see her again.

Before she left, I kissed her lips, hard, and she looked regretful, glancing back over her shoulder as she walked down the stairs and let herself out.

I turned away and sighed, heading for the shower, knowing what today would bring. I braced myself, the water scalding; I would not let him win.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	11. Jade

I passed her on the stairs, hair tangled and cheeks flushed. It was like looking into a startled mirror—her hips were set wider, her figure more pronounced, and a sheen to her eyes that was foreign to me. But beyond that, we were alarmingly similar—she looked more like me than I did.

The girl smiled at me, kept walking—the look on her face making it plain that she understood things I had no inkling of. As I reached the top of the stairs, Adam’s door clicked shut, and I felt a momentary tremor of doubt. That girl—she hadn’t been here with him, had she? She was a client, she must have been—Adam did not have friends and did not accept visitors. If he did have sex, it wasn’t here—in my attempts to avoid him and everyone else, I had carefully monitored everything that happened in the house. He was not seeing anyone; I was being paranoid and needlessly territorial. Besides—why would he sleep with someone who _looked_ like me when the previous, painful night had made it so clear I was his?

Rugged and handsome, scar twisting his proud face, he was strong and noble and honest. The hard edge to him, the look in his eyes when he hit me—muscles taut beneath his sunbathed skin, stubble bristling along his strong jaw—God, did I belong to him! Maybe I hadn’t known it, but I had always been his. I wanted his weight and warmth to press down on me, his rough hands to do with me whatever he pleased—pain or pleasure, my whole body craved his desires. It didn’t matter what client was fucking me, Adam’s vicious grin was the only thing that carried me through to a release. He was in my blood, now—strong but somehow vulnerable, I was sick over him—all I could think of was his touch. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat—I _needed_ him. I thought of nothing else.

I’d woken up in my own bed, his scent clinging to me, my last memory his arms. He had held me—I knew it for a fact. And that’s why it was so important I see him this morning, before he left the house and further evaded me.

I pushed the girl from my mind, settling down just outside Adam’s door. I only had to wait half an hour before it opened, and I leapt to my feet and faced him.

He did not look surprised or even angry. I took that to be a good sign. “Jade,” he said, eyes lifeless. “Come in.”

Secretly, I was thrilled, head swirling and heart thundering—but I did not let Adam see that. For his benefit, I held myself with quiet dignity and impeccable posture, calm and proud, chin angled at a vain angle. I looked good and I knew it. Even more, I knew _he_ knew it—he knew it and he wanted me because of it. He _had_ to want me—why else would he have touched me? Why else would he have held me and laid me in my bed?

My whole body quivered as he locked the door behind me. I knew what came next, and my skin was on fire, burning for his touch. Whatever he wanted, I’d be happy to give—anything for the impossible punishment of his attention.

I heard him stop moving a few steps behind me. I tipped my head back, eyes shut, waiting. “Tell me what you want,” I breathed, pants too snug to disguise my eagerness any longer.

“Mantis is used for total destruction,” his voice came from behind me, and my eyes flickered open, puzzled. What was he talking about? “Each strike is meant to be devastating. It’s a ruthless attack with the purpose of feeding and moving on—a very literal interpretation of the animal. Mantis is what you use when you mean to kill a man. It is fast and emotionless—it has the grace of crane, the explosiveness of tiger, the speed of monkey, the fatality of snake. It lacks the serenity, anger, playfulness, or suddenness of these animals—it is entirely unique, while drawing on the other forms.”

I turned to face him. “What are you talking about?” I asked, head cocked to one side, feeling that I had missed something.

“Mantis,” Adam repeated, looking surprised. “I just said that, didn’t I? There are two types of mantis: iron and exploding. Iron does not move; it draws all strike in, absorbing them, and pulls its prey down to be slaughtered at its feet. Explosive is less methodical and requires far less stamina, what I will be teaching you. For this style, you will move around the enemy, striking relentlessly, quick and powerful and absolutely lethal. I’m only going to go over the salient points; I don’t expect you to master the entire style.

“You will use primarily gingerfist, ridge hand, and mantis hand for striking—”

It wasn’t until I heard the word ‘fist’ that my salivating synapses pulled themselves together. Surely he wasn’t—

“I’ll teach you a few basic, localized strikes. We won’t worry about your form, not yet—”

“Adam, are you—are you teaching me to _fight_?” I interrupted incredulously.

He looked up at me, startled. He had gone into a half-crouch, focusing on his own concentrated yet liquid hand movements, his actions snappish and puppet-like but apparently deadly. He now shifted into a pose so natural it looked awkward—the brute strength he’d rippled with moments ago settled along his height strangely, making him look like a maudlin joke—so much violence imbedded in a few supple lines of flesh that standing upright seemed a perversion of not only his frame but also his very nature.

“To defend yourself,” he corrected me. “You will never _fight_ a client. You will only protect yourself—I want you to keep yourself from harm. I’m going to show you one of the simplest take-downs…”

I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts together into a sentence. “But I thought—last night—”

Adam stopped his motion towards me to stare, with grey coldness, into my eyes. “Last night,” he said, his voice whipping over my skin so that I shivered, suddenly all nerves and fear, “you were hurt badly by a disgusting excuse of a man because you did not know how to take care of yourself. I am doing my best to amend this situation, and you will receive double wages for the situation I put you into. It is unforgivable, but nonetheless I would ask you to accept my apology. Now, the simplest takedown will be—”

And then his body was pressed against me, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, and he snaked his arm under mine and twisted his body away from me—and his foot must have been behind me, I had no time to think—and then I was flat on my back on the ground, staring up at Adam and not sure how I’d gotten there.

I grinned weakly, but his face was impassive. Serious. I didn’t know why any man would know something so well if he didn’t have fun doing it—but then, Adam didn’t seem to want anyone to know whether or not he enjoyed _anything_.

I smirked. Well, that was a challenge if I’d ever heard one.

“Right where you want me, isn’t it?” I teased, playful, intent on soliciting a smile.

Adam withdrew the hand he’d extended to help me up, leaving me to scrabble to my feet unassisted. This, as far as I was concerned, counted as progress.

Again and again, I got up and he threw me to the ground. Again and again, dizzy and breathless, I gazed up at him, eyes wide and sparkling, lips parted ever so slightly. And the more he knocked me down, the more I stared up at him, the more violent he became.

It wasn’t until my ribs ached and my lungs burned and sweat dotted Adam’s brow that I asked silkily, “When is it my turn?”

“What?” Adam snarled.

“When do I get to try?” I repeated clearly, enunciating as condescendingly as possible. I’d been here long enough to know that it drove men like Adam crazy when they were talked down to.

“Do you think you can do it?” he asked, voice disbelieving and rank with scorn.

I barred his arm and shoulder in response, sweeping my foot through and forcing him own off the ground. It was quick but weak; if he’d been expected it, I would’ve ended up in a chokehold on my knees. Since he wasn’t, he fell well, slapping out and bouncing back up, but his ears were tinged red and I knew that, somehow, I had embarrassed the great and impenetrable Adam Carson.

“You didn’t like that!” I declared triumphantly, laughing openly. “Who would have thought, Adam Carson not liking it on his back!”

Adam’s cheeks reddened. “These are things that concern you very little,” he growled, attempting to dismiss me. “You seem to have a firm grasp of the concept. Lesson over.”

“Oh, I’m very concerned,” I laughed, having too much fun to be wary of the thin ice I was jumping up and down on. “I would like very little more than to know _exactly_ how to make you scream.”

Adam stiffened abruptly, a violent-seeming gesture. “You will _never_ hear me scream,” he swore, fury darkening his eyes.

I raised my eyebrows, heedless of the warning signs. “You underestimate my talents, Mr. Carson. My talents are—”

“Something that interests me only as far as payroll is concerned,” Adam snapped, trying once again to shut me up.

“—formidable,” I went on. “I have yet to meet a man as _tough_ as you I couldn’t get a scream from,” I over-enunciated the word ‘tough’, making it mocking, what seemed to me a playful insult.

“Jade,” Adam said fiercely, tone heavy with warning, “remember what I told you. It’s very important. I do not have any interest in you beyond basic monetary concerns—so any advances, be they sexual or merely platonic, are unnecessary, unwarranted, and most definitely unwelcome—not to mention completely out of line.”

I slunk closer to him. “I can’t help but notice you didn’t claim not to enjoy it,” I purred.

“I don’t want you, Jade,” Adam said emotionlessly, mastering the anger I’m sure I was soliciting. By this point, I was desperate for a reaction— _any_ reaction. He stared hard into my eyes, his own now dull and hollow.

He couldn’t possibly know how much his words hurt me. He didn’t know what he did to me, he way his gaze made me tremble, that I replayed our every interaction over and over in my mind at night. He couldn’t know—but the flash of cruelty in his eyes, just before they went out, chased all the reason from me.

“Please, Adam,” I begged, dignity abandoned. “Don’t pretend like that’s true. We both know—”

“You don’t know anything!” Adam cried coldly, voice rising in passion but not tone.

“I do!” I defended myself, the passion of his disinterest stirring a fierce answer in my own heart. “I know you were hurt, hurt bad. I know that that’s why you pretend like you can’t feel anything, because you’re scared of getting hurt again. I’ve never loved—never loved anyone, Adam, but I know—I know you.”

Adam sneered. “ _None_ of that is true.”

“It is!” I insisted, voice climbing higher. “It _is_ true! And I know that you want me. No matter what you say, you want me!”

“Let it go, Puget. You’re wrong and that’s final!” Uncharacteristically patient as he was being, he was yelling now, hands clenched white and quivering into fists.

“Then why’d you fuck that girl?” I shrieked, exploding into a mass of sleepless nights, mindless fucks, and fury at the only thing I could even feel anymore. “Why’d you fuck that stupid slut who looked like me, if you didn’t want me? Don’t you dare tell me it was a coincidence, Adam—I _saw_ her! I don’t know where you found her, but she could not have looked any more like me if she’d tried! And you _fucked_ her, Adam, you fucked her and _you thought of me_!”

I didn’t even see it coming till it was too late. The back of Adam’s hand connected with my cheek, my mouth filled with blood and pain, and I was slammed up against a wall being choked with Adam’s elbow.

“While you’ve got me here against the wall,” I said flatly, words falling from my mouth, terrible and coppery, “how about sucking my goddamn dick?”

Adam hooked his fist upward, sinking it into my diaphragm, utterly ruthless. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” he hissed into my ear, driving his elbow into my Adam’s apple.

Choking and coughing, I shifted my weight, pressing my hips flush against his own. “You know you want to, Adam. You know you want to get down on your knees and—”

Adam hit a kidney this time, soliciting a gasp. I had no chance taking him on physically—so emotional subterfuge and manipulation were all I had to work with in a desperate last stab to level the playing field, if I had any intention to save my job and potentially my life. My arousal at the situation certainly did not improve my odds. Feeling it on his leg, Adam grew even more furious, taking it as an insult—as if I were purposely attacking him this way, with my own lust, unable to see things for what they really were.

I angled my knee between his legs, nudging him gently. When he stared furiously up into my eyes, I licked my bottom lip slowly. “I’m all yours, Adam,” I purred, fighting a losing battle against my arousal. My most persistent daydream had me pinned against a wall, and judging by the physical evidence, he was not only very happy to see me but also pissed as all hell about it.

“I never want to see you again,” Adam growled, paying no mind to the below-waist situation, our mutual discomfort, and the obvious solution we had to offer one another.

“Then you’ll have to time your trips to the kitchen with extreme care,” I answered him, unfazed but quickly approaching salivation, barely able to think around the explicit and numerous thoughts of what exact use his erection could come to. I shifted again, sliding my hips across his the slightest bit.

The response was overwhelming. Before I could comment or encourage, he slammed my head and shoulders back into the wall and his lips were inches from mine. Breathing ragged, erection swollen and probably twice as painful as mine, the look in his eyes became so molten and weak and pleading that I faltered, nonplussed.

He whispered pathetically into my lips, his forehead pressed to mine and eyes squeezed shut, “Please, Jade. Don’t make me do this.”

I whimpered vaguely, despising the situation with a sudden intensity, hating that he gave me the power to choose. He was supposed to command me, reign over me, name his bidding and wait for me to serve—begging eyes and broken whispers were not supposed to happen. This was Adam, unbreakable omnipotent Adam—what had I _done_ to him?

I turned, slipping his under his now pliable arms and spinning away, walking quickly to the door and not looking back. If I looked back, all would be lost—if I saw him, the man who did not want me and would not have me, the only man who had ever mattered, I would die. I would die of hopelessness, his rejection fatal—I would suffocated beneath the weight of my collapsing fantasies.

He was right. How could I have ever doubted him?

Love did not exist.

 

I ran straight to the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Adam wanted me gone, so I’d go—but I’d come back. I’d be back the next morning. The rules had changed, he’d made that clear—I was the one making them now.

“Marchand residence. May I ask who’s calling?” An effeminate voice, probably a housekeeper, answered the phone.

I took a deep breath, trying not to cry. “David, please.”

The voice sounded disapproving. “David,” it over-enunciated, too androgynous to discern a gender, “is not home.”

That was the final blow. My nerves were already a quavering tangle; robbing me of the only conceivable comfort, the sunburst of Davey that would allow me, for a single, stolen second, to _feel_ —it was too much.

“Davey said he’d—he’d be here,” I whispered. “Can you tell him—can you tell him that Jade called for him, but that not to call back, because I have to get away—as far away as I—”

“Jade?” the voice interrupted my despair, startled—and once devoid of the cold formality, I recognized the voice as Davey’s own—“Oh, Jade, I’m sorry! Anyone who asks for David—I mean, if I can get to the phone before Rosetta can, she’s one of the housekeepers—”

“Davey, can you pick me up?” I whimpered, tears filling my wounded eyes. “Please. Just for one night—I need somewhere to stay the night, a friend to spend it with.”

Davey’s enthusiasm faltered. “I don’t know, Jade, my father—”

“Davey, please!” I wailed. “Fuck your goddamn father! I thought we were friends! I’ve never needed you before, never asked anyone for anything—”

The guilt trip worked. “Well… he is out of town—if I sent Rosetta home, it won’t ever get back to him…”

I felt bad for taking advantage of Davey who had never had a friend, but not merely bad enough. My penance was to do my best to bolster his self-esteem. “It’s about time you got your own place, Dave,” I told him fondly, by way of thanks, trying to make myself feel something. “We’ll find you a club with a live band, okay? We’ll get you a job, a singing job, and you can start living for yourself, okay? You deserve to be self-sufficient.”

“I don’t know,” he said again, now dubious. “I’d probably get lonely.”

“Any excuse to spend more time with you, Davey,” I purred, seduction at its best, and the sound of suggestion in my tone galvanized him. We hung up quickly and he said he’d be here in twenty minutes. I stuffed a pack of cigarettes and a change of clothes into a small leather bag, did a few lines of the coke I’d hoped to share with Emily, and waited on the front steps.

I did not have to wait long. Indebted to Davey, I intended to give him a good time in exchange for a place to sleep. Not that he had to know it was a trade—if Dave believed in free sex, that he was Richard Gere, then I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him otherwise.

He made it in ten minutes and I leapt to my feet at the sight of the old, red Aston Martin. He hurried around the car to hold open my door.

I slipped into the renovated coupe, leather seats melting around me. “This is beautiful,” I breathed as Davey buckled himself in. he looked at me and grinned.

“Do you like it?” he asked, eager for my approval. “It’s my favorite car.”

“How much money do you need to drive a car like this?” I asked in awe, beginning to feel the first tingles of Davey-induced humanity.

Davey beamed, flooring the gas and squealing away from the curb. “I’ll buy you one!” he said cheerfully, paying no mind to my dropping jaw and reaching over to squeeze my hand.

The ache inside me did not heal or disappear as Davey attempted to break the sound barrier, speeding past the city limits and blazing down a twisting country road at 180 miles per hour. But as we whipped up his coiled driveway, I felt something else settling over me, something new I could feel instead—a light sense of relief, a certain relaxation that bordered on contentment, something undoubtedly coming off Davey in waves.

We sat in the garage in silence for a moment, the engine’s clicking echoing like a powerful cicada. The kind of euphoric smile only flagrantly reckless driving can bestow was settled across Davey’s face, and when I glanced over at him I suddenly felt something tug at me, a low an irresistible impulse that had me leaning across the console, twisting his face towards mine and kissing him full on the lips before my next racing heartbeat.

I broke away, suddenly giddy and grinning, ducking my head. But Davey caught my chin, lifted it—stunned by my brilliant smile, he returned it, embarrassed.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, unable to look anything but pleased, “just because I’m letting you stay the night.”

I leaned forward, catching his lips with mine, running my tongue lightly over them. Startled, he let them part, but I pulled back. Teasing. I looked hard into his sweet brown eyes and said sincerely, “I want to.”

I was surprised to find, suddenly, that what had been the right thing to say was actually what I meant. I _had_ wanted to kiss him—and I didn’t kiss anyone. Not because I thought I was Julia Roberts, but because most men weren’t interested. Kissing, it had always seemed to me, was a waste of time—Kelley had been the first I’d ever kissed, and Davey was only the second. Even more surprising than the initial urge was that I truly enjoyed it.

Davey’s eyes smoldered, and this time I kissed him hungrily, without holding back.

There, in the cramped backseat of the Vanquish, was the first time in my short life I had had sex for pleasure. Of course, there was no way for Davey to know that—it was only his second time, he told me later. He didn’t even notice the difference in me—and I suppose that is because there wasn’t one. it wasn’t much different, really—it was only that after, windows fogged and last images of Adam fading from my mind, _he_ was the one who cleaned up; and then he settled into my chest, expecting me to hold him, to be tender.

All good feeling gone, I felt only the gnawing despair. Humiliated—because sex like this, unprotected and unplanned, was not something to be proud of or happy about—and disappointed. Not only was it still a fantasy of Adam, the memory of his whisper so close it brushed my lips, that carried me through, but I wouldn’t be getting paid, either. Accepting money was the only dignified part of it—and instead Davey expected me to lay here in my shame, the guilt of knowing I’d wanted it pressing down so heavily I couldn’t breathe, let alone say the things he wanted to hear.

“Jade,” he sighed happily, leaning back into my chest, “I’ve never loved anyone before. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

I was too exhausted to be properly alarmed by his words, left bare and cold and armed with only honesty. “No,” I answered morosely. “No, it’s utter agony, the most unbearable thing I’ve ever known. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep—I’m suffering, Davey, suffering terribly.”

He lifted his head, concerned light captive in his eyes. “But Jade!” he cried, smile tweaking at his lips. “You don’t need to suffer anymore! I love you, too!”  
And he pressed his lips to mine, eyes brimming with tears that I suspected were of happiness, and kissed me so devoutly that I could not bear to correct him.

I fought the urge to turn and flee. Instead, I stayed through the night, the warmth Davey had made me feel fading quickly, till I was numb and cold again. And so, reprieve ended, when he wanted to curl into my chest, I let him, and when I felt that he wanted me to hold him, I did.

It was, after all, what was expected of me.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	12. Adam

It was true that he’d been breaking my rules since day one. It was true that, the moment I responded to my own lecherous name, I had begun to surrender myself to him—but this was too much.

It was true that he had the night off. He was very much in demand—he usually had around twenty appointments a week. I had heard it was not just his looks of his young, nubile body—I had been told by more than one client that his skill surpassed his rising rates.

When I relayed this to him, he had only grinned. “What can I say, baby? I’m the blue light special.” He then proceeded to inform me I could ‘have it for free’ if I was so inclined—always, always pushing, seeing how far he could go before I swung at him.

Which I did.

Often.

It was obvious he hadn’t heeded my demand that he vacate the house, but if he intended to stay on, then he was just as guilty—he’d left, and was still not back at sunrise.

Either way—finally, he had done something I could prove he’d done and throw him out for: it was six in the morning and he was neither home nor with a client. So when I finally heard a knock at the door—I’d pulled the chain, just to insure he’d have to go through me. No more sneaking.

I did not want him to know how eager I was, that I’d been waiting for him. So I ignored the knock; I ignored the first few ‘hello’s. In fact, I waited until irritation took over his voice and he demanded, sounding like a petulant and bossy child, emphasizing the second syllable of my name: “A-dum! Come the fuck on!”

I chuckled to myself and got up slowly, leaving my beer to perspire on the kitchen table, walking at my most leisurely pace and taking the time to enjoy my somewhat dismal surroundings. A kind of affection for the place came over me, and I was glad that I had never put much stock in house-cleaning. I liked the way the dust and old wood made the air taste.

Jade pounded his fist on the door. “Damn it, Adam, let me in!”

A grin split my face in two and I leered through the space between door and chain at him. I could see both his eyes, the middle section of his face and nothing else—grey morning light and a red car purring at the curb.

“Good morning, Jade,” I said gaily. Finally, peace settled within me—I would be _free_ of him at last, my tormentor cast out forever. He would take his clients with him; he was making quite a name for himself, I had no need for remorse—and his livelihood would be secured. I would cause him no hardship. He could afford a room and food and everything he needed—in fact, if I thought about it hard enough, I could almost make myself believe I was doing him a favor.

“What the hell, Adam? Let me the fuck in! I’ve been standing out here for ages!” he whined, glaring at me. I knew my face was cast with shadows, impossible to make inference from; I knew also that my teeth shone, pointed and threatening despite my smile.

“Jade, the only way I’ll let you in this house is if you’ve purchased the company of one of my employees,” I said pleasantly, taking inordinate delight in every word and even more in the look on his face.

“What the hell!” Jade snarled, reduced to the base emotion of rage. “This isn’t funny, you fucking prick!”

Apparently, he was already pissy. “Jade, do you remember the rules I explained to you, your first night here?”

Voice acerbic, Jade snapped, “Yes.”

“And was I wrong in assuming that you understood these rules?” I went on pleasantly. It felt a thousand times better than I’d dared dream.

“ _No_.” Jade’s voice had been reduced to a growl that sounded painful.

I fought back the laugh that tinged my voice. “Then you’ll have to explain to me why you expect to be let in. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Jade pounded his fist against the door, rattling the chain. “Damn it!” he fumed. “All of my stuff is here, Adam!”

“I’m sorry, Jade—I wasn’t aware that the rules did not apply to you,” I said lightly, smirking.

But he became even more desperate. “Adam, I need—I need my stuff. You can’t kick me out!”

I nodded my head towards the still-idling car, though I doubt he saw the gesture. “Can’t your new _friend_ buy you all the blow you need?”

“You mean David? David Marchand?” he attempted, trying to name-drop his way into my graces.

“He’s caused quite the stir with his father lately, and I suppose this little afraid is why. Tell me, Jade, does he _love_ you?” I heard the mockery in my voice, bitter and hard, and I liked it. The flex of my voice coiled round it, a deeper, crueler lining to my words, and Jade recoiled from them.

“It’s good coke, isn’t it?” he snarled, evasion even better than an answer. “I’m sure you’re enjoying it!”

“You mean the coke you left here? I let Ehren have it. He and Clare shared it—I let them have the same night off. I’m fairly certain Ehren’s going to try and marry her,” I mused, shaking my head in conversational disbelief. “Now that would be a terrible waste, two of my best deserting the business for something like _love_ —”

Jade’s howl cut me off. “You gave it away? Do you know how much that cost me? It was good—the _best_ —”

I shrugged, cold displeasure seizing my gut as I voiced the most despicable words I knew. “Emily was concerned, Jade, about your addiction. Your mirrors and credit cards and that flat silver pillbox you bought for yourself—what else have you bought, Jade, what nice things have you gotten to supplement your _pathetic_ life—but a filthy fucking addiction?”

He pounded his fist into the wood again, its soft rotting planks giving way and fleshy splinters carving out a damp and stinking dent. “Fuck you, Adam! I’m not addicted to anything! Emily’s just a fucking whore—she doesn’t know _shit_! Let me the fuck in!”

I smirked, but there was no joy left in me. It was true—if he was at the point of throwing the one person in the house he cared for back in my face, to denounce Emily to deny addiction—he was livid, panicking, needing. “Jade Puget, if your hands are so much as quivering, I will _not_ permit you to ever step foot on my property again.”

He was shrill, now, twisting his body as he paced and shrieked. “You want an addict?” he yelled, fingers knotted in his hair, eyes bulging. “Right under your own fucking precious roof! Clare! She’s entirely dependent on—”

My face was grave, my voice solemn. I knew things about the girl that he did not. I did not disregard rules for anyone—but there were things about Clare that I pretended I didn’t notice. She’d suffered enough in her life.

“Do not say anything you’ll regret, Jade,” I said coldly. “I do not have to let you in and I do not intend to. Now go get your little boyfriend to buy you some brand new blow—and when you find yourself chain-smoking in all-night diners, nothing but change and cigarettes in your pockets, and later than night you’re getting fucked in an alley for twenty bucks and you can’t say for sure where you’re gonna sleep, let alone where you’re gonna get your next fix or HIV treatments—when you’re bleeding and starving and not attractive to anyone anymore, no matter how little you charge, when you don’t know what you’re gonna do for money, food or blow because sex was all you had to offer and now you’ve lost that too—well—you call me, then, you show up here and ask to see me. I could use a good laugh.”

“GodDAMNit!” Jade screamed, making a violent jerking movement that meant he would have hit me if he could have reached me.

I read that as a threat. Not to be called a coward, shut behind the heavy door, I loosened the chain and flung the door wide, broad shoulders swelling to block the doorway in its entirety.

“You want to hit me, Jade?” I asked quietly. “Okay. Go ahead. I won’t stop you. Hell—if you can beat me, I’ll take you back. If you can beat me, I’ll let you stay. I’ll give you my fucking room, if you want it. The deed to the house. If you can beat me fair—keep what you kill.”

A look crossed his face, just for an instant, and then it was extinguished, all life gone. It had been hope, for a moment; but then it had died, washed up at my feet. Shoulders slumped forward, defeated. And it was this creature, pathetic and broken, who lifted his fist and with less than half his heart swung, a slow and powerless arc that I allowed to drag into my chest. I barely felt it, exhaling sharply the only defense against his strike I employed, and even that was overkill.

Something about the gesture was so weak, so futile—an addict, a whore, and so utterly broken that I couldn’t even despise him. Not yet eighteen, and he’d resigned himself to this cold and colorless death without a fight.

I saw what I was about to do but was unable to stop it. The despair in his eyes as he moved to turn away—the horror I’d described was what he went to, not unafraid but as if it were is duty, the lot he’d drawn, something he was already resigned to—I couldn’t bear it. It was not compassion in me, nor the humanity of pity—it was something new, something so bright and fragile I could only glimpse it from the corner of my thoughts because meeting it straight on would destroy both it and myself. It was a warm thing, something indistinct and quiet, slipped into the shadows and kept secret even from itself. I could not name it, could only perceive it in quick hidden moments, had never fully grasped it till this second, and even as I saw it, it was gone again—but I had felt it, for the split second it had let me.

And so, even as he angled away from me, the fire I had kept him for entirely eradicated, I stepped away, door left open and unblocked.

“What happened to you?” I asked softly, grief taking over my voice, an unnatural gentleness. It would be hours still till I realized the full impact of what I’d done, the warmth that had commanded me to pardon him all his transgressions, even those we both understood would be repeated, and for the time I felt only the relief of anhedonia, total numbness, the unadmitted joy that he would not be gone from me after all, not yet. The dread for this same reason was yet to settle in my gut, clenching and cold and terrible. “What happened to your fire, Jade?”

He stared at me, unmoving. A long moment passed, his eyes on the echo that was the doorway, shock still too tangible a thing for him to feel. And then his eyes flickered, hooded gaze returning, and he sauntered forward easily, no longer meek. At the last second, level with me, he turned his head to meet my eyes and purred, soft and seductive, “My fire? Adam—what happened to yours?”

I let him slip by me, disappearing into the cracks of the house, and smiled. The recoil from his remark, the swell of anger I was so accustomed to—it was welcome, something I understood, hot and consuming.

Still, I stood there for a long time, staring into the misty morning. It wasn’t until I felt a presence behind me that I realized the world had yet to stop entirely.

“Jade’s back,” an unobtrusive voice came from behind me.

I turned, not surprised to see Emily. The soft presence behind me—no one was so quiet as she.

“Yes,” I agreed, not taking my eyes off the reluctantly spreading sunrise.

“Why?” she asked simply, sitting soundlessly at my feet, tipping her head back against the worn wood of the doorframe, studying the mist differently than I had, seeking answers instead of beauty.

“I’m not sure,” I said honestly, feeling lost. My anger had been replaced b y a desperation that felt almost like tears, writhing horribly inside me. “You know it, don’t you?”

“Whatever it is about him? Yes, I know it. I hate him—I hate him so! He’s thoughtless and vapid and—and—”

“Lost,” I filled in, voice all but muted by the thick, cool morning air. “So desperate to be found.”

“Cocaine,” she said, her voice lower than before. “He needs it, you know—he’ll do what he has to, to get it. As long as the Marchand boy will finance it, Jade will fuck him off the clock. That’ll cost you.”

Ignoring her was not a conscious effort. Rather, I tried very hard to hear her words, make them real to me. “I can’t control him, Em.”

“I know,” she whispered, ducking her head and hiding behind a sheet of her lovely hair. “It’s—it’s hard to watch. It scares me. It feels like I’m—like we’re losing you.”

Suddenly, sharply, I turned my head, stared hard into Emily’s eyes, which were suddenly dark and filled with unbearable wanting.

“Emily!” I cried, despair rising in my voice, and I flung myself to my knees, to her side, staring hard into her eyes. My hand hesitated, inches from her cheek the urge to stroke her alabaster skin was overwhelming. “Oh, Emily, no!”

I was begging now, and she held her lip tightly in her teeth, staring helplessly into my eyes.

Her voice was almost inaudible, and I leaned closer to hear her better. “Yes,” she whispered, tears in her eyes and terror on her face. “I’m so, so sorry, I—I just—”

And then my fingers were on her cheek, her ice skin, and an animal cry of affection and desolation escaped me. Not Emily. Not her!

“I love you,” she moaned, closing her soulful eyes as tears streamed down her colorless, beautiful but somehow wasted cheeks, rolling onto my quivering hand. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to, I know it’s the last thing you wanted, but I—I couldn’t stop myself from—”

“You were supposed to hate me, Em,” I cried, voice low and anguished.

“I’ll leave,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against my skin for one perfect moment of clarity that we both knew was impossibly separate from the course of reality, a future not possible for either of us. “I understand. I understand everything.”

“Oh, Em, I don’t want you to go,” I whispered, pressing our foreheads together and trying to escape the unbearable burning in my throat.

“I will, though,” she said tearfully. “This—this has gone on too long.”

“Take a month,” I begged. “Take a month to talk yourself out of me, and when you come back—when you come back, things will be different. I promise!”

Emily shook her head harder, pulling back from me and staring hard into my eyes, voice made husky by her tears. “You’re changing. He’s changing you. I have some money; I’ll get a place. You can let me know when I’m scheduled for, can’t you? I’ll get a phone.”

“If I let you go, Emily—”

“You already did,” she said more firmly, gathering her composure.

“There’s nothing I can do to keep you here?” I asked, half begging and half whimpering.

“No. But—” Emily hesitated, decided she had nothing to lose, and took the plunge. “There’s one thing I’ve always wanted.”

 _Anything_ , I thought, unable to find the words. I did not have friends, did not know what the word meant anymore—but I knew, more deeply than I knew anything, that I could not lose Emily. On the buzzing summer nights when the air conditioning failed—in a house this old, it happened often—we had met wordlessly downstairs, usually to sit in the kitchen or watch on old movie on the flickering TV. Three, almost four years we’d done this—those nights were the reason she’d sported an Audrey Hepburn bob, that August so long ago—one of those nights, needing nothing but each other, I’d felt something—something so thorough, so deep that it meant something more powerful than I could comprehend—but I was still so closed off then, my defenses so strong, that no human had stood a chance—and now it was too late, too late and too early and all wrong, but—somehow—I couldn’t lose her.

“Could I—well—I’ve always wanted to have something to call you,” she said in a rush, looking somewhere between her feet and my eyes.

I laid my fingers on her face and leaned forward, roughly pressing my lips to hers. She kissed back, brief and chaste, and pulled away.

“You’re right,” she said softly, one last tear slipping down her now-flushed cheek. “It’s better if I just go.”

I said nothing.

I couldn’t.

Somehow, the grey mist held me down, suffocated me—reminded me. And so I said nothing, did not move—instead I only watched her walk, ethereal and infinite, into the morning. She would be back, some part of me knew, to gather her things and her self and all the rest—but I knew that it was final, an ending where a beginning had never had the chance to breathe.

Had she looked back, and she didn’t, she would have seen in my eyes the answer to any question she had ever had about me. And in case their volumes weren’t enough, I would have gladly repeated it until the end of time, just to hold onto the one shred of human closeness I knew for another timeless second.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	13. Jade

  
_What right did he have to condemn me?_

For nearly five weeks, this self-righteous demand was the what greeted me every morning when I woke up in Davey’s bed, every time I slipped in through the front door so deliberately left unlocked, every time I did just _one_ more line. At first, it helped—comforted me, really. But it was starting to grow stale, especially as one more line became two or three until it took at least five for me to believe I even had the right to _think_ it, let alone _live_ by it—

What right indeed.

I laughed derisively, alone in the tiny bedroom of Davey’s new flat.

Just hours earlier, Adam and I had had another screaming match; the same old routine, me staying out too late, his look-a-like fuck dolls, the recreational habit he wrongly insisted was an addiction.

He didn’t know _anything_ , and for as long as I believed it, I didn’t have to know it either.

It was rounding on six o’clock, and already I’d done two clients and more than twelve lines. There had been the priest, who had wanted head while he listened to confessions and proscribed Hail Marys around to his flock, not even disguising the orgasm in his voice; then I’d snorted a little sanity from the web between thumb and forefinger in the church bathroom and gone on to dress up as a schoolgirl and get fucked by a successful businessman while his wife was playing tennis, and while he cleaned himself off I grinned at my reflection and took a well-earned reprieve, half-hoping I’d miscounted, half-hoping my heart would give out.

Davey’s had been next. Since Adam had given up on me, I spent nearly every night with Dave. Emily was no longer living at Adam’s—he’d done something to chase her away, I was sure of it, just because he knew how comforting she was to me—and after we fucked Davey always fell asleep. He had to know who kept taking money from his wallet, but until the day he realized I spent every cent of it on cocaine, I did not intend to stop. Besides, he never said anything, and there was no such thing as free sex—especially not from a whore.

I did a few more lines and stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a smoke-smelling puddle on his white carpet. Finally, feeling flooded through me, high electrifying my veins, and when Davey got home my mind was gone, and I was happy to do whatever he wanted.

Well—almost.

If Davey had chosen that moment to erupt as a closet bondage fiend, hat would have been fine. If he’d wanted me on the balcony, in the shower, on the kitchen counter, under the bed—any of that would have been just fine. If he liked the thought of peanut butter instead of lube, I wouldn’t have had enough mind to disagree—

But Davey came in clutching roses and a cardboard heart presumably full of chocolates, a grin on his face and with a fierce desire to talk.

About, of all things, our _relationship_.

“Surprise!” he cooed, descending on my like Saint Valentine himself, kissing all over my face.

“Is it some holiday I don’t know about?” I asked uneasily. The part of me that felt guilty for stealing from him hated when he bought me things.

Davey pouted. “I love you, Jadey. Can’t I buy things for you?”

“I just—you stole my surprise,” I sighed, covering lamely. He thought he loved me and it didn’t matter if he was annoying—love was love. I owed him at least my most earnest attempt to return the feeling.

Davey’s face instantly lit up. “Surprise? Ooh, Jade, what is it?”

I had always thought well on my feet; the blow made me even quicker. “I was _going_ to take you out to dinner,” I drawled. “But if you want to steal the surprises of the evening, I’ll call and cancel the reservation…”

Davey squealed with delight and tackled me onto the bed, arms wrapped tight around me. Of course, being pressed against my naked body had certain repercussions, and tonight I did not let him fuck me. For once, it was _his_ face ground into the cheap bedspread while he grunted his love for me in time with my thrusts. Taking Davey was not one of the better fucks I’d had, barely worth the effort, except of course that it far surpassed his own performance—but neither was the _worst_ I’d had, and I saw no cause to correct him. If he wanted to love me—what right had I to deny it?

It seemed that most things, these days, kept coming back to rights. Tricky little devils, those. Every day, the burning desire to fuck all and do what I pleased, to break the rules and do _wrong_ , grew stronger. But I refused to acknowledge, to name it; instead I chased the fire with powder, and it always went out.

While a newly petulant Davey, unaccustomed to dealing with humility and getting anything but his way, slunk away to the shower almost immediately after. When I asked where he was going, he snapped that he needed to clean up, and I was secretly pleased. I made last minute reservations at the nicest restaurant in the city by dropping Adam’s name, and blithely commanded that three dozen yellow roses be waiting at the table. I dressed slowly, my limbs feeling heavy, looking emaciated and gaunt, my dark suit making the shadows on my face more severe. My reflection startled me and I realized my crash was imminent, not a moment too soon. I snorted the last of my coke and wiped the residue from my nose with the back of my hand, looking guilty, just as Davey finally emerged from the bathroom.

His dignity was clearly still ruffled and, scowling at me, he chose his ugliest but most expensive suit. Wordlessly, he handed me the keys, illustrating just how furious he was about his submission by continuing it, and the car ride passed in silence.

It took until we reached the restaurant for me to realize what Davey wanted me to do—he wanted me to make myself inferior again, because that was what he thought he was—better than me. He couldn’t live with the fact that I had dominated over him. He counted on me being _less_ than he was—a whore, doing what I was told.

Just because I knew the nature of the game, however, did not mean I was going to play.

I ignored the valet, deliberately because it was the sort of luxury Davey didn’t know how to live without. I did not open the car door for him; his scowl deepened.

It wasn’t until he saw the roses, though, that things really got interesting. In my world, roses always gave the giver diplomatic immunity, and also the liberty to be an utter douche bag at _least_ until the flowers wilted. But my arrogance, usually so carefully cloaked in Davey’s subtly spoiled presence, did not seem to agree with him.

“This isn’t our table,” Davey snapped at the waiter the instant he saw my floral apology for satisfying my God-given needs, an end Davey had never before been a means to. In fact, up until the second his eyes froze over in angry denial, I thought I’d been overdoing it.

“The reservation is for Mr. Puget, represented by the prestigious Carson Marketing Analysis firm,” the host said politely. “This is the specific table requested by Mr. Puget.”

I’d asked a table with a few of the marina, and lit up at night it was gorgeous, a lightshow worthy of gods. It was the best table in the house, and I’d bumped a very big-name actor out of his reservation to get it. In fact, he was somewhere over in a corner by an ornate marble pillar scowling at me, and somewhere down the line some poor nobody who’d been on the waiting list for months was being turned out with no explanation or compensation because of _my_ status.

Not, of course, that the eternally moneyed Davey would appreciate something like that.

He swept a vase off the table haughtily, which I only _just_ caught and set gently on the ground next to my chair, and glared alternately at me and the retreating back of the host.

“Marketing and Analysis?” he spat. “Like _anyone_ believes that about Carson’s little enterprise. Everyone here knows what you _really_ are. You shouldn’t be _proud_ of it either, so stop smirking! Do you know how humiliating it is when you go around letting everyone in the most fashionable places know you’re nothing but a—”

I was tired of the word, tired of the life. Exhausted of them. I did not want to hear it out of his mouth—not if he wasn’t going to pay me.

“Davey,” I cut him off, warning in my tone, “I did not have to do this for you, do you understand? But because I wanted to take you somewhere nice on short notice, I pulled my status to get a reservation. I’m sure your father’s done it hundreds of times, and I can’t understand why it bothers you so much. After all, you can’t pretend like you’re above it, can you? It was a well-financed bed you met me, David, and you’d do well to remember it.”

Davey’s lips twisted into a possessive and offended snarl. I kept forgetting to be gentle, that he loved me. “How would you like it if _I_ fucked someone new every night?”

And that I supposedly loved him. Another crucial detail.

It was hard not laugh, once I realized what he was doing—he was trying to make me jealous, make me mad.

Once again, it was a game I wasn’t interested in playing. So I pretended to consider it, shrugged, and answering honestly. “I wouldn’t care. _Especially_ not if you were getting paid and spending the money on me. In fact, this is the first time in my life I’ve had money to spend. I grew up in a hovel—my father was a mechanic, my mother a stripper. And once she got too old to take off her clothes for money, or hot dogs and macaroni were pretty fucking hard to pay for. So the fact that I’m good enough at fucking to take my ungrateful boyfriend out to the nicest place in town—well, it doesn’t really bother me, all things considered.”

Davey looked—and, I reminded myself, felt—furious. “You—ugh! You’re impossible.”

“Davey, if you want to make the rules with this—with us—that’s fine with me. but you can look forward to a bill at the end of the night, if having someone at your every beck and call is all you want me for,” I informed him calmly, choosing each word carefully so as to be as biting as possible.

He made a face like he’d been hit. “And how much would a little _respect_ cost me? Maybe if you didn’t _act_ like an unmannered whore I wouldn’t feel the need to _treat_ you like one!” he snarled.

I tried to remember if he’d always been the spoiled, ostentatious bitch in front of me now, and came to the conclusion that yes, ever since he’d decided he loved me, he’d been getting worse and worse.

“I’ll give you a deal on respect and only charge a hundred an hour,” I shot back. The look of recoil on his face only egged me on and my voice rose steadily. “What? Suddenly you can’t afford me? Without Daddy’s money I become a luxury a bit out of reach of your bank account, don’t I? it’s too bad you hated being fucked by me so terribly much—your father was willing to lay down _half a million dollars_ for that particular gift, once he’d seen how much _you_ liked it!”

Just as the waitress appeared to take our orders, trying hard to look as oblivious as she wished she was, Davey burst into tears. I rolled my eyes at the girl, who looked revolted by my insensitivity and gave me one hell of an idea. I ordered for both of us in my sultriest tones, almost apologetically, every hand gesture and voice inflection expressing my deepest regret that she’d had to witness our little scene. Once her light, crystalline laugh had pierced Davey’s low sobs and she’d excused herself, I looked warily to the wretched pile of nerves that he’d become.

Before I could bring myself to console him, a thought that repulsed me with a frightening intensity, he sniffled, “I’m just—I’m just worried you’re ashamed of me.”

Not even I was prepared for that. “Dave—what?”

He sniffed loudly. “You’ve _never_ taken me home or—or to meet your friends. We’re always going to _me_ places—it seems like you’re—you know!”

My laugh was a sharp bark of disbelief, and it returned the uneasiness to his face. “Davey, I live in a fucking _whorehouse_!” I laughed. “Of course I haven’t brought you home! Jesus! And whenever I’m not—well, working—I’m with you! You don’t want anything to do with a place like that!”

Davey looked at his hands, which were pale and smooth and perfectly manicured. “Still. I want to meet your friends, go to the clubs you hang out at… you know, drink and stuff. _Your_ kind of fun.”

I shook my head, vague fondness for his naiveté filling me. “I don’t _have_ any friends, Dave. I spend all my time with you. The only friend I ever had… her name was Emily, Davey, and she betrayed me and left. Besides—I’m not old enough to get into any clubs, and _you’ve_ never had a drink in your life. How is your little game plan in any way practical?” I cried, amusement giving way to exasperation quickly as his face changed.

Davey’s pout became more pronounced. “Well, if you aren’t ashamed of me, then, why don’t you take me back to your place tonight?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I live in a whorehouse!” I repeated, more loudly than necessary. “It’s not a playground for trained poodles, Davey! You will NEVER belong there!”

Davey burst into flames yet again, flung his chair back from the table and stormed away, furious. The waitress, who had just appeared with our salads, gave me a curious look, as if she would wish me dead had I not been so courteous earlier.

“I certainly hope you’re going to go after him,” she said, tone genial but all but throwing the plate at me.  
I had a bite of the salad, which was not as good as it cost but still pretty damn delicious, and stared up at her.

“I wasn’t planning on it, no,” I said, shrugging. “I’ve got the keys. He’ll be waiting at the car when I’m done.”  
The waitress threw her hands up, not sure whose side to take. “You’re impossible!” she cried. “He obviously loves you—shouldn’t you treat him, I don’t know, better?”

I looked hard at the girl. “I took him out to dinner here, didn’t I? I was willing to spend three hundred dollars on a single meal, wasn’t I? These roses—I bought these for him, a surprise, just to see his smile—but that’s too much trouble for him! He got _angry_ over them, tried to tell the host that it was the wrong table—he’s never had to work, been rich his whole life—and here _I_ am, working overtime just to spend my money on things that won’t even be good enough for him when I can’t afford a car or a house or blow for my _self_ half the time!”

My rant exhausted, I suddenly realized what, exactly, I’d been venting on the waitress. However, the backlash I expected did not come. Instead, she looked thoughtful.

“I guess I never looked at it from your perspective,” she mused slowly. I noticed for the first time how lovely her thick, honey curls were; how tight her breasts pressed against her form-fitting blouse; how flushed her cheeks and blue her eyes. “You’re right. I’d be even meaner than you, if someone treated me like I was… something less than them.”

I licked my lower lip, contemplative. She did have a way with words. “I’ve been trying so hard for so long to make him happy—but I think we’re just wrong for each other. I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough for him, and I’m sick of trying to be something I’m not,” I moaned, deliberately appealing to her pity. I knew that if I did it well enough, I could have her on her knees within the hour.

“And what are you, really?” she asked, her own shallow kind of seduction creeping into her tone as she absent-mindedly wound a curl around her finger.

“I’m not so much a roses and nice dinners kind of guy,” I confided, a great air of intimacy creeping over her table. “I’m more of an ‘admire the stars now while I’ve got you on your back because neither of us can say how long they’ll last’ kind of guy.”

When she slipped into Davey’s seat, leaning over the table with her concerned eyes wide, I knew I had her.

I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I had no desire to fuck her. I noticed she was good-looking, and then that I could have her if I so chose—and that was all I cared about. It was a material thing, confirming my value, the best kind of power trip I knew. I could have her—so I would. Do not think I’m sex-crazed—I cared little for the act or the art of it, both of which I had long since mastered. It was the mental rush of seduction, the sleek conquest, that so appealed to me.

Since she was working, she couldn’t exactly leave the premises—she offered me a phone number but, perhaps knowing I’d never call, we ended up fucking in the bathroom like the degenerates of society that we were.

After, I kissed her cheek and combed my fingers through her curls. She beamed and winked, tossing her glossy hair, and did not try to give me her number again.

It was refreshing to finally be understood.

My skin was still flushed, my grin leisurely, when I paid for my uneaten meal and left a generous three-figure tip, not in payment but in gratitude. I was even laughing when I strolled to the car, expecting to find Davey sulking beside it. When he wasn’t there, it only made my night that much better. I took the car back to Adam’s, selfish bastard that I was, and my good mood had not yet faded when I let myself in and sauntered towards the kitchen. I had such a good feeling—Adam was the perfect challenge, exactly the kind of conquest my mood demanded, that I could almost pretend there were no emotions involved in my fierce wanting for him.

I didn’t expect to succeed, not really, only to have a good time trying—but the one thing that I expected least of all, the one thing I was not nearly high enough to contend with, was the pair, deeply involved in conversation, that I found in the kitchen.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=4718>  



	14. Adam

I hadn’t been aware the house had a functioning doorbell until a horrible buzzing filled the house. It had just started to rain and at first the noise was lost in the roar of the downpour—but the more incessant the buzzing grew, the harder it was to pretend I didn’t hear it.

“Answer the door!” Clare finally screamed down the stairs at me, and once she’d done that, I realized that the noise I heard must somehow be connected with the door. A bit relived that I wasn’t actually losing my mind, I ran headfirst into the next shock of them evening, which came when I unbolted and opened the door. Soaking and red-eyed on the doorstep was David Marchand.

I did not flinch or wave—I kept my emotion entirely off my face. But my voice, however guarded, betrayed me—it made it clear just how unwelcome David was.

“I’m looking for Jade,” he announced with the air of a command. I missed the days when he had been shy—now he was bossy, spoiled, imposing.

“You don’t have an appointment,” I countered, and he sneered at me.

“Well, you’ll do, then,” he snapped, attempting to push past me into the house. As soon as the obnoxious little creature touched me, I planted my feet so that there was nowhere for him to go but flat against my chest.

“Can I help you?” I growled, no longer caring that he could hear every detail of my loathing.

“I would like to take out a lease,” he snarled back, glaring up at me. “You’re in a position to make a great deal of money.”

I shrugged, looking down at the pathetic pile of dripping rich boy attempting ostentation in my shadow. “I already have a great deal of money,” I said, nonchalant and disinterested.

This only enraged him further. So furious but so childish—unable to disguise how he felt. Winning that way was impossible.

It did not matter to me that it was raining. It made no difference who his father was or what his name was worth—but I did not like the idea of conducting a business meeting on the front steps where every crackhead on the block could hear.

I took David to the kitchen, not offering him a drink or a towel to drip on. Clearly disgruntled by my lack of formality—or maybe just respect—David sat primly on the edge of the chair across from the one I’d slumped into and pushed his dripping bangs out of his eyes.

“I would like to buy exclusive rights to one of your men,” he demanded flatly, courtesy and manners both too frivolous to suit him.

For one stunned moment, I did not move. And then I laughed.

“You want to _buy_ him?” I howled, incredulous and in hysterics. “Oh, God, David, that’s just—” And a fresh wave of laughter broke, making speech impossible.

Now David was seriously offended. “Is that so unbelievable?” he shrieked. “That loving someone includes not wanting them in a different bed every night?”

That word, that glorified lie of a word, sobered me instantly. “You don’t believe that he loves you, David?” I asked, voice dangerous and stinging. “You don’t believe that you’re anything more than free blow and a place to sleep?”

“Jade doesn’t do drugs,” Davey snapped. “He doesn’t need to. And besides, I _know_ he loves me. You’ve never been in love—you wouldn’t know what it feels like—but if he didn’t love me just as much as I love him, I’d know. I’d feel it.”

“David, let me give you a piece of advice,” I finally said, knowing he would be unable to listen the same way I had been. “Whores are only underpaid actors.”

He flinched from the word like it physically hurt him. I had been like this, once—so deliberately blind to the truth, taken in by the lies of a coward.

“You’re wrong about him,” Davey said imperiously. “Jade is different.”

Didn’t I know it. And so, even if he was buying into the oldest hoax in the world—maybe he was right. Maybe Jade had bought into it too.

For some reason I couldn’t name, this thought made everything inside me press in so tight it was hard to breathe. The Jade who had first come to me, stubborn and vibrantly alive—I could believe that that boy had been taken in by the fool’s gold that was love. But the hardened cynic who could only find a smile while cocaine seared his brain? That Jade, the horrible cold creature that filled the absence of a dead fire, would put stock in something like love? I found that somehow, it bothered me to the point where my throat constricted and I could not bear it. And suddenly memory flooded up around me and I couldn’t fight in any longer.

The day Lars got out of rehab, that’s what came back now. The day he showed up at my door eight months later.

I could see it so well—could even smell the wave of his cologne that hit me when I opened the door. At first, I was frozen. Stunned. The liar, the bastard, the ghost—I’d expected him dead, and here he was. A rose clutched in his hand, a white rose; his curls gone, the blunt buzz cut of rehab in its place. The gaunt, shadowed familiarity of his face gone—the sallow quality of his skin forgotten, replaced with a rosy fullness of health I could not find him in. He looked clean, healthy, and had a look so hopeful it made me sick. His eyes were wide, so pleading and honest that it made my skin crawl. Things had changed, since the time he’d been away. Since he’d done the one thing he’d sworn not to do. Since he’d revealed that he never really did love me.

“Oh, God, Adam,” were his first words, and even his voice had changed. Softer, fuller, kinder—a stranger.

“You left,” I said shortly, struggling to keep my revulsion out of my voice. What I didn’t know was that the new way I operated, my one-level psyche, only allowed for one emotion—so if I eliminated disgust, I was left only with my own hatred, my own weakness, my own heartbreak. Volatile and broken.

“I cleaned up,” he corrected me, pious adoration sweeping his once-familiar features. “I can be better now, Adam. I can be what you need.”

I sneered. I couldn’t help it. “You _were_ what I needed,” I spat.

“Ad, please! I was fucked, we both knew it. At the rate I was going, I was liable to drop dead any day—and the only person I was worse to than myself was you.”

Rage roared through me, ringing in my ears. “Don’t talk about—about how you did some noble thing! Leaving me—that was when you started treating me badly! When you left!”

A brief plash of pain crossed his face, and for a second I saw him—Lars, the one I’d loved. But then the flash of rage passed, and his voice did not change. He was still a stranger.

“I left,” he said, calm and low, “for _you_. without you, I had no reason to get clean, no reason not to kill myself with the stuff before I turned twenty-one! I did it for _you_ , Adam! Because you deserved better!”

Before I knew what was happening, I’d let loose my fist and caught Lars in the jaw. Hitting was something I’d gotten good at in the time since I’d left home—in my time with Lars. But he didn’t hit back—he stumbled, regained his footing, and spat out a few droplets of blood. Then he looked into my eyes and waited patiently for me to speak.

“You could have stayed,” I growled. “ _I_ quit without rehab—it wasn’t easy, but I did it! I didn’t want—I didn’t want hallucinations of what I could never have again, and that was the only high I got anymore. And it got to the point where it hurt too much to keep shooting up… to the point where withdrawal was less deadly, less painful. Not that I expect _you_ to fucking care.”

Lars made a face like I’d hit him, but too late. “Adam, it wasn’t easy! Rehab was hell! They didn’t let me have smack and I couldn’t see you, not for the first few months—and when I could have visitors, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t come see me. I thought I was going to die, without you. But I knew—I knew that, if I were ever to be what you deserved—I had no choice. Leaving was the best thing I could have done for you…”

I tensed again, as if to strike; Lars raised an arm to block the blow he saw coming. Hastily, he went on, “Please, Adam, we don’t need to worry about that anymore. Why should we fight when we can finally be together again? I love you, Adam, and the hungry way you’ve always looked at me, so hunted and without hope—that’s enough in itself to tell me that you love me just as much. Don’t make me beg—all this, everything we’re fighting about it over. If you can just forgive me for the way—the way we _were_ —then we can start over. We can be happy.”

I did not slam the door in his face, and I think that that says something for my moral caliber. However, had I thought for a second that he wouldn’t have just kept knocking till it opened again, I would have.

“We can never be happy!” I screamed, all the ugliness of the last eight months clawing its way out of me. “As far as I’m concerned, we _were_ happy! Do you know—damn it, Lars! I had to ask your fucking dealer where you’d gone to! You could have at least said goodbye, Lars!”  
Another flash of anger distorted his face and something sudden and powerful took hold of me. If I made him angry enough—if I could just get him to snarl, to yell, to flash hatred in his eyes—if I could only get him to hit me, he’d remember. Who he really was. The way we were meant to be.

If he would just let himself out, if he could just prove he’d ever been there to begin with, lose control for one precious second—I was sure that he’d remember that he liked it. Without the apology, if he’d just done what the old Lars would have—if he’d come storming up, screamed at me for trying to hide from him, and smacked me hard against the face—if he’d done that, we’d be inside fucking by now, and I’d already be screaming my love for him. But this—this was betrayal worse than his leaving me. It was treachery beyond abandonment—it was like he was denying our love had ever existed. And if he believed this—it had to be true, didn’t it? It he had never loved me, how could I love him?

“Forgive me, Adam,” the disgusting bitch that claimed to be Lards, my Lars, sniveled yet again.

“No!” I roared, barely nineteen but doing my best to be intimidating. “I don’t fucking _want_ to! I don’t know you, Lars! Not anymore! You’re a fucking pussy—why are you standing there asking have me back when you could just slam me up against a wall and fucking _take_ me? You owned me, once—so why the fuck are you asking now?”

“Oh, God. Look what I’ve turned you into! You’re standing here expecting it, you’re so conditioned to my abuse. I’m different, Adam—I’m not like that anymore. You can—you can live better, now. Before, I—I didn’t even treat you like a human, did I?”

“No—and I _liked_ it!” I screamed, unable to make him who he had been. “I was so in love with you, Lars! I don’t care _what_ we were, didn’t care about the bruises or the scars—no, that’s not true, I did care—I _loved_ them—to see your mark on my skin and mine on yours—a bond like that was unbreakable. That was the kind of love that lasted. Not this—not this born-again white bread bullshit! God—go find yourself a woman, if you want to turn yourself into something you’re not! That’s no more a perversion than this—this _thing_!”

For a second—almost a second—I saw loathing in his eyes, revulsion at my words taking hold of him. In the next instant, he had shoved me back, my head and then shoulders slamming into the doorframe, and his voice was rough, cutting, everything I’d ever loved coming back into him for that perfect moment, and he hand was rough on my throat, the pressure dizzying and I closed me eyes in utter joy, body rejoicing under long-absent touch and his lips were brushing my throat as he snarled, “Then I’ll fucking _pay_ for it, you disgusting whore!”

You could say that he forced me to kiss him, what with the violence and the grip that left bruises on my throat and the way he tore my lips with his teeth, but I was willing. I was so, so willing. A moan built in my throat and my whole body responded, melting into his, collecting the right I was born to, knowing wholly that we were meant for each other and that this was the perfection so many sought for all their long lives—

And then, just when I thought I had died, that life was not so good or so kind, that love could not possibly be so powerful or profound and that my heart was going to burst—then, right at the moment I was going to laugh and give in and believe in the whole elaborate sham—he pulled away. So violently it was as if I’d stabbed him—though even then, my Lars would only growl and lean in closer so that you had to stare into his eyes as he bled to death—and the fire in his eyes faded, face pale and ashen. Instead of the heroin deadness or the lust or the pure animal loathing I was used to finding in his eyes, I saw something clear and bright and sad, some kind of crestfallen purity I didn’t know how to name.

“This is wrong,” he said mournfully, and at that moment everything that had ever been living inside of me died, the last stirrings of my heart for the next several years. “I can’t do this.”

I wondered why he was still speaking; didn’t he know I’d died? He’d done enough. To apologize would surely only waste his bullets on a cooling corpse.

“We cannot be this way, Adam,” he said, and the despair in his voice made me loathe the words, the name, the traitor. “You deserve better.”

“If you loved me…” I started, but forced myself too hollow to go on. The copper from my bitten lip flooded my mouth; it was all that was left to me, now.

“Don’t you understand, Adam? I do love you. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“Love is something that doesn’t apply to us anymore!” I bellowed. “Love isn’t something that has ever existed!”

“Adam—” a look of pain chased by shame crossed the alabaster planes of Lars’ face— “what we were was not love! It was sex and hate and violence. We—we can have better. We’re both good enough to deserve it. Once you realize you aren’t worthless, you’ll realize you don’t want to live this kind of life. It’s so destructive—humans weren’t meant to live the way we did. Please, Adam—no matter what I made you think of yourself, you aren’t so worthless as to deserve this!”

My temper flared and the growl that had taken the place of my voice grew sharper. “No—I never was the worthless one, was I?” I paused, letting the ugliness of my words soak into his features. “Lars, I never want to see your face again. Come back here—and I’ll be leaving, now that you have—and I will do my best to kill you.”

I waited, watching his face for any hint of the man I had loved. I wanted no part of what this miserable cunt thought love was. If that was love—if tender kisses and holding doors and dripping poems and roses were indeed what love was made of—I wanted no part of it at all.

But he remained impassive, mouth slightly open, nonplussed. He could not believe the fierce honesty in my tone, could not accept that I wanted more than anything for him to die. “Adam—”

“I never want to hear that name again,” I said coldly, emotion gone from my manner and my tone. Love—love was a foolish game, that was all. I’d lost, and I need never lose again.

The impatient rustling and huffing of David slowly drew me out of that last memory of Lars, his upturned nose and pursed lips erasing the heartbreak and pain that had passed in spasms across the face I no longer knew until the sobbing finally started. I don’t know if Lars ever tried to find me, after I left him sobbing broken on my doorstep—I moved, took my first name off my credit cards and bank account, cancelled my phone service, and hid. I built my empire slowly—brick by brick, each one lain with the intent of laying another brick between us, of building a wall that would keep out not just Lars but also every memory I had of him.

David clearly expected me to speak, and I gathered my thoughts from far away before letting each deliberate phrase fall from my lips. “Of course, if Jade were made exclusive to you, I would sustain a substantial loss, both monetary and in regard to my patrons,” I said coldly, finally marshalling my emotions under the single banner of conducting business. “So rather than just matching his potential earnings, I’d require a sum to compensate for the clientele lost—and that amount, while relative to his current economic pull, provides no fiscal incentive whatsoever for me to conduct any trade.”

David looked relatively surprised. He’d expected to cheat me, I realized—not so guileless as I’d once imagined. He’d thought the seduction of such a large sum all at once would distract me from facts—but Jade was an investment, a high-paying business endeavor I was loathe to let go.

He gritted his orthodontically perfected teeth, doubtlessly running numbers through his head. “What kind of sum are you imagining, Mr. Carson?”

I let a deliberate, mellifluous smile cross my lips.

“2.5 million,” I said flatly, letting the words fall lifeless from my mouth, pebbles gathering at his feet. I contributed nothing more; the stones were already laid. He could do with him what he would.

He made no outward response to shock, a tribute to the fine breeding behind him and also the change he was undergoing, reminding me he was not so straightforward as he’d once been. Instead, a small amount of color drained from his face and his voice adopted a strain. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your division of funds,” he said stiffly, struggling to keep his voice from snapping under the pressure.

I smirked, delighted. He was not accustomed to financial work; good. This made the job of convincing him Jade was worth what I was charging easier.

“It’s a good deal, better than I should give you. An annual one million dollars will be sufficient to cover most of his proposed yearly earnings; another million will cover negative client feedback to Jade’s restricted availability. And the point five—well, that’s going to buy me a flat in Naples, presumably better furnished than the dump I rent in Paris—although, if you really wanted to sway the transaction in your favor, the villa your father built me in Spain not so long ago suits my needs quiet well.”

David’s face was getting on purple. “I am not financing your summer home,” he hissed, staring at me as if the gun pressed cold to his temple were a tangible thing.

“I thought love knew no bounds,” I remarked quietly. David winced.

“I can get it to you in installments,” he said from behind those perfect teeth.

My grin was delighted. This was shaping up to be a wonderful game—and I hadn’t lost any game I’d bothered playing in years. “All at once, David, or not at all. Do you think Wall Street would let you purchases millions of dollars on margin? It’s unlikely.”

“He’s a human, not a—not some kind of business commodity!” David exclaimed, my arctic manner making him grow self-righteous.

“No? Then why is he bought and traded? If you valued him as a person, David—if you valued him as a _person_ , you wouldn’t _want_ to buy him. The very thought of it—it would repulse you.”

David made a face, ready to recoil and scream protest, but before he could—before either of us could—a familiar scent filled the room. A scent and then a voice, lazy and drawling and cruel.

The absence of hurt was enough, and I knew. He didn’t love David. He didn’t care who owned him, as long as he got paid—and the only reaction to such a business deal was to recognize the opportunity, the excuse, to be cruel. He’d sunk so low as to see lashing out as the only way to enjoy himself, to feel—it was frightening to watch. I’d thought I was the only one who lived like that.

“Do you remember our waitress, Davey?” Jade’s voice was sticky, honey-sweet, and his eyes flowed with golden satisfaction. I knew instantly what role the waitress was about to play in David’s torment. “I wasn’t getting paid, but I fucked her. You were right about me— _he_ was right about me.”

David sat stunned, for a moment. I smirked. And this was the dumb kid who had thought business rights would end the problem of infidelity? He’d probably be on the streets giving blowjob birthday parties to buy coke in two weeks.

“That’s not true,” David whimpered, voice quivering. “I know—I know you’re mad. You’re lashing out, that’s all. I shouldn’t have left; I’m sorry.”

Jade chuckled. “I did fuck her, Davey. I fucked her and she liked it—go figure, some people actually like being fucked by me—ask Adam, he’ll tell you what my numbers are like—we did it in the women’s bathroom. The countertops are marble, Dave—there were purple calla lilies, and the mirror was made to look like polished gold—go check, if you don’t believe me. Go and ask her.”

The proudly defiant angle of his chin made it frighteningly true, and David saw with terror the shine in his eyes. It would be so easy to bring the grey sky down upon this poor, frightened child—too easy. Something recoiled deep inside me; it was sick, this cruelty. This _torture_.

Pretending that he wasn’t about to cry, David quavered, “I—I will! I’ll call—right now! What was her name?”

I winced. David had sniveled directly into the trap. Jade bared his teeth in a horrible, carnivorous smile and laughed. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

David burst into tears, sobs loud and disgusting. “Jade,” he wailed, and I was embarrassed for him, “I _love_ you! I’m going—I’m going to buy you, Jade, save you from this life! I’ll take care of you and—and you won’t have to live this way!”

“How much were you going to pay for me?” Jade asked abruptly, turning to me. “How much is love worth to him?”

“2.5 million,” I said quietly, the words clipped and hard, unable to keep the gleaming pleasure from my eyes. No matter how terrible, I couldn’t fight it anymore. Cruelty was my favorite game.

Jade whirled to face the cowering David, covering up his amusement with fury. “I steal your money to buy co _caine_ , Davey! Love—God, Dave, you can’t think that I love you! You’re smarter than that—you can’t believe that I’m _2.5 million dollars_ in _love_ with you!”

David was sobbing now, tears streaming down his face. “You told me—you said that you loved me, and I—I love you! I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, and it’s too—it’s too late to talk me out of it! Cheat on me, steal from me, whatever you do—I can’t stop loving you now!”

“I never told you that I loved you,” Jade said haltingly, suddenly looking sad and otherwise unreadable. “I was talking about… someone else.”

His last sentence caught, dragging across my consciousness like a barbed ware rake. Jade could not love anyone. I didn’t know why I rejected it so fiercely, but for some nameless reason it was impossible for me to grasp. I couldn’t stop the words that suddenly fell from my lips—

“Love, Jade?”

Jade spun to face me. Somehow, I’d gotten to my feet. And before I had time to think, as Davey’s crying escalated, all I could see were his eyes—his wide, captivating, inescapable eyes.

“Yes, love!” he cried fiercely, eyes brilliant and burning into me golden, seeing things I’d never meant to show anyone. “Is love such a hard thing to understand? I know you’re intelligent enough—if you weren’t so stupid, you’d—we could be happy!”

His words stunned me. I couldn’t think, could barely feel, the whole world spinning in a blur of color and sound, the kind of intensified reality Jade thought he had to snort dust to see.

“You mean you and I,” I said slowly, trying hard to think through the pulsing that filled my head, the tiniest details suddenly the most vivid things in the world. The chipping paint, the freckle just below his left eye, the tarnish on the ornate curl of the light fixture, the creak of the table, the way David’s shoulders strained the fabric of his suit as he cried—“How would _you_ and _I_ be happy?”

Jade shook his head, eyes wide and helpless—desperate, disbelieving, unable to stop his wretched machination and moving relentlessly forward. “Together, Adam. We could be happy _together_.”

I reeled away from the words. “I warned you!” I yelped, suddenly, inexplicably panicking. I felt on the brink of something huge, bigger than me, the root to everything that I’d been feeling, every single thing I’d done that seemed so _wrong_ —I was right there, the truth within my reach, attainable and terrifying—if I knew it, if I knew that answer, I would be able to do anything, I would have the _world_ —“I told you I’d never want this Jade—not from you! Not ever!”

“Not from anyone, right?” he yelled back, face flushed and gold eyes flashing. “Not Adam Carson—he doesn’t need anyone! So tough—so strong, so big, so fucking invincible—you don’t need _anything_ , do you?”

“No! I don’t!” I was screaming, now, not thinking. Neither of us was.

“Of course not! Not Adam fucking Carson!” he screeched. “You’re too fucking perfect to—”

“Perfect? No!” I interrupted, breaking finally into rage. “I will never be, have _never_ been, anything but a monster! Flawed and ugly and cruel—inhuman! That’s the only way I know how to survive!”

Pure hatred seethed into Jade’s eyes, revulsion rolling off his brow. “You pretentious fucking dickhead! Not everything it about you, Adam!”

I backhanded him, full power and no warning, and he spun away, a hiss of pain and rage escaping him. When he looked back at me with blood foaming at the corner of his mouth, his eyes were bright and gleaming, only encouraged by my attack.

“You love me!” he screamed, by this point so loud that David was flinching as well as sobbing. I couldn’t look away from the crack in the finish on the filthy refrigerator door—if I looked just a little harder, thought just a little further, everything would make sense again. “Why can’t you just admit that you fucking _love_ me!”

I swung again but this time, he stepped aside, drawing his foot in, into the cat stance I’d taught him, and snapping his hands down on two pressure points in my arm. He smashed his fist into my ribs with dizzying speed and threw me onto the kitchen floor.

“You love me, goddamnit,” he hissed, glaring down at where my head was spinning on the ground. “You love me!”

Dazed, flat on my back, I stared up at him. I had not fallen correctly, instincts erased by the blur in my head. Everything beyond the face of Jade had gone fuzzy, colors muted and melting together.

The only thing clear to me, the one thing that stood out in a colorless scene, all I could focus on—it was at that moment that I realized the knowledge I had shied away from for the last several months, the one thing I had been unable to look at straight on—it was not that the rest of the world was pale or hard to see when Jade was there; it was that, without Jade, there was no world at all.

There was nothing else left to do. I closed my eyes and quietly said, “Yes, Jade. I do.”

  
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